


Owls From Beyond the Veil

by TheHatMan98



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Diagon Alley, Domestic Violence, Durmstrang, Gen, Hogwarts, Knights of Walpurgis, Knockturn Alley, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Murder Mystery, Murder-Suicide, Pre-Hogwarts, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), St Mungo's Hospital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHatMan98/pseuds/TheHatMan98
Summary: Winter, 1959.Alastor Moody: an Auror with a murky past. His time is spent trying to put that past behind and doing jobs the rest of the Ministry of Magic either can't or won't do. But when a routine investigation into an unremarkable Ministry employee ends in a suicide, Alastor will be forced down a slippery road that will force him to confront the demons of his past and present.
Relationships: Charlus Potter/Dorea Black Potter, Cygnus Black/Druella Rosier Black, Druella Rosier Black/Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. The Mysterious Mister Moody

**The Mysterious Mr Moody**

_A Tuesday, November, 1959_

Alastor Moody was not often the subject of conversation in those days, but this was one of the few times, and – as would have been to his total irritation – he was not even present for this conversation. It took place some one hundred feet below Muggle London at the Headquarters of the Ministry of Magic, in one of the many parties that the then Minister of Magic was apt to throw for no other reason than raising general morale among her employees and more wealthy constituents. All the good, the bad and the ugly of wizarding Britain were there – which explains why Alastor Moody wasn't, as in those days he was none of the above – only a rather scandalous cause for conversation and gossip, as a fine young auror making a rapid rise through the ranks, but with a personal life that was wrapped in tragedy, blood feuds and ambiguity.

"So tell us, Larry," inquired a long nosed witch in ermine patterned robes, at gathering in the Department of Magical Transport, of one Laurence Fawcett, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, "Who is this young Moody fellow I've been hearing about?"

Laurence Fawcett just laughed half-heartedly, shaking his head as though he might refuse to answer. "Now, Stephanie. I really couldn't gossip about one of my underlings, no matter how accomplished they are."

But that wasn't about to stop his son, Lionel Fawcett, who was five drinks deep and party to all that his father knew of his own department, and a little more. "Alastor Moody. Now, there is a thing or two I could tell you about him."

Unlike his father, Lionel needed no further incentive or bribe to divulge gossip.

"Alastor Moody," he repeated, "Ruffian, teacher, duellist, auror. That's what his references would say, if he needed one. Not that he will mind, there's one to die in the Auror Office, mark my words. And jolly soon that'll be, the way he carries on," Lionel took another heavy draught of his drink. "We overlapped a year in Hogwarts, you know? My last. But by the end of it there wasn't anyone in the school who didn't know Moody by reputation. Cause all kinds of trouble, and that was not the year to be causing trouble believe me! Was the same year when all that trouble with people getting petrified and that mudbl- oh, err, I mean…"

Lionel cupped his mouth, aghast at the near Freudian Slip, and blushing beneath his father's angered gaze.

"I mean, when that _Muggle-born_ wound up dead. Anyway, more than a few people thought that Moody, even in his first year, might have had something to do with it – started all kinds of brawls with other students, and plenty of them well above him. Knew jinxes and curse you wouldn't believe, duelled better than most the prefects too. But after that half-breed went down for it, he was cleared. Earned his way into the Slug Club, like the best of us," the young Fawcett beamed, slimily, as though it had been his own endeavours and not his surname that had earned the good graces of Horace Slughorn. "As you can guess, the Department had their eye on him even then, but it didn't last. That business with his father broke out, and the Moody name was mud. His Mother tried to come back to her old job, but she wound up getting herself killed in the end – and the grandfather pushed off not long after. So there you had it – Alastor was barely fifteen, and already breadwinner for that brother and sister of his. Ended up wiping tables at the Leaky Cauldron for two sickles a night. Did that every summer to buy their way in the world."

"Not that it lasted, his brother was in school, as well by then. And the sister was took in by neighbours the rest of the year. In the meantime, our young Al coped with the whole mess by getting damn angry about everything. Took almost nothing to set him off, so it all went downhill from there. Lifetime ban from Quidditch, international ban from the professional duelling circuit, sixth year he got himself sacked from a summer job at Ollivanders that Dumbledore set him up with. I suppose not long after that he couldn't stand to stay in country by all accounts: summer after his graduation he takes the brother and sister to Platform 9 and 3/4s and then _poof_! Vanishes without a trace, only leaves a note saying he'd left the country and no one should come after him. The other two end up farmed out to Alastor's friends who could barely stomach his name – you know, Charlus Potter, Alphard and Dorea Black, that whole crowd – which was shame, they had all been a thick as thieves in Hogwarts, according to Alphard."

By now, an audience has gathered, who occasionally contribute their two pennies worth to Lionel's monologue of the life and times of Alastor Moody.

"Mind you those bridges have been half mended now. Alastor still ended up as best man at Chuck and Dorea's wedding." One brown haired witch added, in robes that were combination of tartan and magenta.

"Of course he was. Part of the reason he came back." Said the snide, disapproving voice of a wizard with white-blond, slicked back hair and carrying a snake's head cane. "Other reason was dear, dear Druella Rosier. Druella Black as she now is, given poor Cygnus was the only one who would have her."

There was a scandalised gasp amongst the more blood minded witches and wizards gathered. "You don't mean that Druella and Moody were involved, Abraxas?"

"Oh they most certainly were, I assure you. Not long after poor Alastor's mother pitched off her mortal coil, he and Druella were quite the item. She was the only thing that could reel him in once that temper flared on. My word, they would have been good together if only she hadn't have come to her senses. See, that was probably one of the things that made him run, when Druella turned him down. Couldn't stand the shame of the rejection."

The entire party had ground to a halt by now, everyone had their ears fixed to Abraxas Malfoy and Lionel Fawcett as between them they extracted every ounce of drama they could from their flimsy grasp of true events and converted it into searing hot gossip, especially as one Barnabas Cuffe had a quill and notepad out and was scribbling all down for further reference.

"True, Abraxas, too true." Fawcett continued, "Anyway, Alastor, leaves the country, travels a bit, doing Merlin knows what, then in the end arrives at _Durmstrang_ of all places. Becomes their Duelling and Combat teacher, well if there was anything that Moody knew about it duelling. And Durmstrang's not going to let a little thing like a lifetime ban for aggressive tendencies put them off hiring him. But that didn't last long, not long after people caught on to where he was, he returned. Not that he was well liked when he did. His brother was out of school by then and working himself, didn't take long for them to come to blows."

"Then it was his brother, Alec's turn to leave." Malfoy continued. "Left for America, and not been heard from since. Told Alastor that it was time he did his lot for the sister. Not that he had much of a chance: poor girl was dead from Dragon Pox within a year. But at least that got him back in his old crowd's good books. Huge reconciliations over the grave, apparently. Tears, apologies, the whole kit and kaboodle. Suddenly, it's as though the past five years hadn't happened, and he's being headhunted by the Auror Department like everyone had expected them to, back in Hogwarts."

"Yes," it was the older Fawcett, Laurence, who spoke now. His voice was tainted by the hint of disdain. "We wouldn't have took him on, of course. Had I been running things then, I'll admit, but… well, my predecessor owed Slughorn a favour, who owed Dumbledore a favour…"

"Dumbledore?" It was then Minister for Magic herself that interrupted the flow now. "You say it was Dumbledore who got Moody the job?"

"Indeed, Wilhelmina, indeed." Fawcett the Elder said, sagely, "Couldn't believe it myself when I found out! Never could figure why Dumbledore would single out Moody, especially given the family history…"

"Obvious I should have thought, Laurence." Abraxas Malfoy snorted, a knowing grin tugging across his otherwise unblemished face. "Orphaned, Father a lunatic, Mother and Sister dead, estranged brother, ran out on all his responsibility. Clear as day that Dumbledore saw some of himself in young Alastor. Thought he'd try and give him a leg up before the poor fellow fell off his rocker and founded a 'For the Greater Good' revival act. Wouldn't be surprised if that was why Moody ended up in Durmstrang: following in Grindelwald's footsteps."

Surprising to many, Laurence now rose to the defence of his much talked about underling. "Utter rubbish, Malfoy. One thing you couldn't accuse Alastor of is anything like that! Moody is as fine a Auror as I have ever seen, better than his grandfather, I don't doubt, finest his whole family ever produced. I sure as hell sleep better knowing that I have Alastor Moody to turn to in a crisis."

With that Fawcett decreed an end to gossip. Their audience dispersed, and party resumed, with everyone digesting what they had heard of the Ministry's star Auror. Barnabas Cuffe was already writing in his head the headline article of that week's _Sunday_ _Prophet_ : _'The Mysterious Moody: What's the truth behind Britain's most mystifying Auror?'_ But he needn't have gone through the effort.

Within 24 hours, the _Sunday_ _Prophet_ 's headline would be completely re-written, but if Cuffe had been astute enough, he could have just followed Lionel Fawcett as he hurriedly excused himself from the Party, and took the Ministry lift up to 2nd Floor at the bequest of his Liaison to the Auror Office and the Junior Undersecretary to the Head of the Department for International Cooperation. During this conversation, Alastor Moody's name came up yet again, though he was not its only subject. But what was without a doubt was that, given the Head of his Departments spirited defence of him moments ago, the career and fragile reputation of Alastor Moody was unquestionably on the line.

* * *

_Wednesday, 1 A.M. – The Moody Household, Berwick-Upon-Tweed_

"Hello?" Barked the gruff, tired voice of a certain Auror, as he placed the receiver to his ear and silenced the infernal metallic ringing of his telephone.

" _Hello, Alastor. That is you, isn't it?_ " An all too amiable voice for the time of evening answered back, " _It's Chuck._ "

"Charlus? Merlin's beard, what do you want?" Growled back the irked Auror, who set aside the piece of parchment he'd been falling asleep into. "What time is it?"

" _Charming, as ever, Alastor. Don't pretend I've woke you. I know you only got off duty two hours ago, you'll have your face stuck in yesterday's reports or be buried in a book on counter-curses."_

"Alright, alright… git." Alastor turned his voice a more conciliatory shade. He pinched the bridge of his nose, as he slipped a sigh through it. "What do you want then? Cause I get better conversations with that cow in reception."

" _Fawcett and Flint want you to come in. They couldn't get hold of you, so they asked me. I knew this bloody machine would be the only way to grab you this late._ "

"Secure line of communication, Chuck," But halted his further lecture as he registered Charlus' words. "Why do they want me in this late?"

" _I expect they wanted you in twelve hours ago._ " Charlus turned his voice a much graver tone, one that Alastor immediately recognized and took note for its rarity. " _It's about that fellow you interviewed the day before yesterday, Hector Shafiq. Works at the Department for International Magical Cooperation, ring any bells?_ "

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Suspected of harbouring sympathies with Grindelwald years back, and seen recently buying suspect items from _Borgin and Burke's_. All went well, no problems there. Went like clockwork."

" _Well, I'm afraid someone's just thrown a spanner in the clockworks, Alastor. Man's gone and written a letter to the head of his Department saying that you've gone and helped frame him, set him up for a one way trip to Azkaban, or otherwise ruined his career_."

"What? What a load of cobblers." Alastor sat up straight in his arm chair, leaned forward right to the edge. "What the hell else does he want?"

" _No idea, and we're not likely to know. Man's dead, popped his clogs. Poisoned himself, it looks like_."

"I'll be there soon…" He said, and replaced the receiver.


	2. Our Eponymous Owl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: Alastor breaks with protocol and goes to visit the wife of Hector Shafiq. They share a pot of tea, before fate comes to join them and rouse his suspicions.

**Our Eponymous Owl**

_Wednesday, 8:18 AM – Somewhere in Hull_

In a way, the torrent of rain coming down on top him came as a kind of relief. Although it had, in the two and a half minutes of his being in the thick of it, already sank strait through his travelling cloak, and drenched him right through to the bone, it at least keeps him awake. Having departed the Ministry at a time closer to 3 AM than 2, Alastor had allowed himself a small piece of respite and gone back home, where stripped of his retinue he promptly flopped onto his bed, and tried to shut the door on that day. But it hadn't work, and for the better part of four hours he just laid in bed starring up at his ceiling. His mind was too awake to sleep, even though the rest of his body would happily ventured to the land of nod.

Still it was not to be, and awake he stayed, until his alarm clock sounded and he rolled off the bed and began his day. Yet on his way to the home of Mrs Shafiq, Alastor couldn't help but be rueful, wishing he'd forced himself to sleep harder. It was well over 24 hours since he lasted slept, and he knew it showed. As he navigated the cobbled streets of Hull, he looked especially shabby. One or two snotty looking Muggles had seen him coming, and crossed the road to avoid him.

But besides them, the whole of his journey was quiet, despite the pitter-patter of the rain on his head. There was hardly a Muggle in sight. Perhaps some force of presence and purpose went before him, clearing the path of prying eyes. Another wizard might have taken a direct route to the Shafiq's house, but Alastor deliberately took the most roundabout route he could make. He couldn't be sure, yet he wouldn't put it passed Flint or Fawcett to have someone tailing him, and to keep anyone from interfering he made to lose them.

As a result, it was half an hour after he arrived in Hull that he stood on the small steps of the House of Mr and Mrs Shafiq, and rapped his knuckles hard on the small, fragile wooden door. Immediately, he regretted it. He didn't much about Mrs Shafiq, her husband Hector had talked sparingly about her, but what he did say was that she was small, cautious and frail. Older than him besides. The way to get her cooperation would be the soft approach, gentle: she might see through it, which was why Alastor hated, but what would she have to hide?

The door opened eerily slow, then a face more weather beaten than his own appeared in the gap kept guarded by a chain. The face came with a pale, blue pair of eyes, almost glossed over, that turned upwards to look at him with a question poised.

Alastor announced himself, "Mrs Shafiq, I'm with the Ministry. I've come about what happened to your husband."

As if she had long expected him, she turned, and presumably with a wave of the wand, the chain relinquished its hold on the door, which creaked open to allow him entry. Stepping inside, Alastor brushed off his cloak, and replaced on an empty coat peg that revealed itself as the door closed again, the chain locking itself up again. Alastor turned to speak to her again, but she was gone. Warily, Alastor walked a few steps further in the house and spied an open door further down the hall way.

The house was not what he expected. It seemed too muggle and too austere for Mr Shafiq, with his fine suit and robes, the grandiose moustache, and longing for fine wine. Alastor had expected something like Malfoy Manor, not this damp little house crammed in a muggle slum. Going through the hall way door, Alastor found the sitting room, with Mrs Shafiq looking as though she were being swallowed by an enormous, dark green armchair. In front of her, was a small table with a precisely ordered tea set, with one cup perched in front of her with the spoon still in it.

Moody presumed it had been there some time: neither the cup nor the pot were evacuating steam. The undertakers from Saint Mungo's must have made it for her. They were good with that kind of thing, Alastor was remorse to know.

With nothing else but a job to do, Moody sat on the sofa next to the armchair, sat squarely facing her, intently. Just as he was about to speak, she pre-empted him. "You suppose I ought to be weeping, yes?" her accent wasn't what he had expected. Shafiq spoke perfect English with the accent to match, but while her English was just as good, her accent was tainted. He could recognize it, but Alastor knew European, east, but he couldn't tell if it was more Slavic or Germanic. "But I am too old to weep. My sadness, my rage, all used up. I've no tears to give myself anymore."

Alastor cocked his head almost, narrowing his eyes. He could tell she was no stranger to suffering and grief, she would not be flattered or cajoled by his soft approach, but he offered it anyway – as a kindness.

"My name is Alastor Moody, Mrs Shafiq." He said calmly, and noticed how her eyes for the first time semmed to come alive, and dart toward him curiously as her neck bent like a fox to investigate him. "I'm from the Auror Department."

"Alastor Moody," she repeated, trying the name out for herself. "You were the one who interrogated my husband." There was no question in her voice, nor accusation, but bleak and naked fact. "You questioned his loyalty?"

She pulled her wand up, and flicked it at her teacup, which suddenly began steaming again, like fresh. Offering it to him, and not her own lips she said: "Drink."

To appease her, he took the cup from the saucer and took a gulp. Too sweet. Then replaced it, sighing before saying, "I liked your husband, Mrs Shafiq." Mirroring her plain statements of fact.

She gave him one in return. "You did not give that impression." Then followed it up with two challenges. "You shocked him. You made him afraid." There was accusation there, as if she might have just said 'you murdered him'.

Another sigh through his nose, Alastor started, "I know what you husband's letter said…" but she cut him off.

"I'm not thinking of that," her voice shrinking to a whisper, "I'm thinking of what he said to me. When he came back from out interrogation he was terrified, incoherent. I had to brew him a sleeping draught to get him through the night. But for the next day you continued to pray on his mind. You, Mr Moody, were with my husband until his last thought."

A third, much more irritated sigh followed from Alastor. "Mrs Shafiq, I frankly do not understand this." He said, a certain Scottish tartness creeping in to his tone. "From anonymous sources, we had to investigate your husband based on the information, but the _interview_ was nothing more than a formality, and a friendly one at that."

"So you say."

"I do." He said, with added firmness for yet another correction. "I rather thought your husband enjoyed himself."

"Enjoyed?" She spoke as if horrified. "An interrogation?!"

"It was nothing like that," he assured her. "He told me stories, about when he was young. His idealism, youth. We didn't even talk at the Ministry. His office was too crowded so we walked around London: Hyde Park, Piccadilly."

"'You rather thought'" she said, testing his words. "It's a strange and filthy illness, you have." Her words struck him clean off guard, but more so was her pallid, mournful tone, as though he had fulfilled her expectations and she were disappointed in the fact. "You have become detached, yes? Yours is a black world, a kingdom of paper and order. You cannot talk to people as you once did, you know longer have it in you to commune with the real world." Was this condemnation, or envy?

Alastor just raised an eyebrow, adding, "Maybe." Then he rose. "Forgive me, you must be exhausted. You can't have slept at all last night."

She gave him a sad smile, "I do not have the luxury. My body and my mind are forever circling one another, sleep would just get in the way. Like the sun and moon."

"Yes, I should leave you."

But before he disapperated, there was a tapping at the window. One which Alastor recognised to be from an owl's beak, at first he rolled his eyes, expecting it to be from the ministry, letter clamped between its claws. But as the animal tapped again, he saw the look on Mrs Shafiq's face: the horror, the terror in her eyes and recognized something in it. To put her back at ease as the animal kept knocking, which came increasingly loud, he told "It's probably the Department, they'll be checking up on me. I'll get it." And striding over to the window, he threw back the curtains, cracked the window to retrieve the letter, he tore it open as the tawny owl swooped back into its flight.

_Thank you, valued customer, for using Alwin's Early Morning Owl Alarm Service. This is your 9A.M calling. If you would like to renew this service for another day, please return the current note with your name and address at the bottom, either with the current messenger or one of your own._

Pretending to act disappointed, Alastor handed the letter to Mrs Shafiq, who merely stared at it perplexed. "For you. Your early morning… erm, request." But she merely continued starring at it, then finally took it from his hands and set it down on the tea tray.

Satisfied, Alastor rubbed his hands together, "Very well, I shall leave you. My Office will want to know what's happened to me."

"Yes," she murmured, as he began turning on his heels, "go back to your black world." And he disappeared.

* * *

_10:30 A.M._

"Tea, Al?"

"Hmm?"

"Tea? For you? From this pot?"

"Yes," he replied nonchalantly, only to then come flying back down to earth with a resolute, "Don't call me 'Al'!"

Charlus Potter just laughed, and slinked back into the chair across from him. The Chief (as they referred to the Head of the Auror Office) was in dire need of a new waiting room, Alastor noted, and said as much to Charlus. "Chairs are coming apart, Chuck!" and flicked an errant piece of stuffing off the arm of his chair to bounce of Charlus's knee.

But he just scoffed at him. "Now you say that, Alastor, then go looking around this place like you still can't believe your hear. Never thought you'd stay starstruck with it for this long."

He nodded, conceding the point. He had taken the long road to get his position, which had once seemed a given. For Charlus, of course, the charm of the place had long warn off – not the much phased him anyway. Chuck had been an Auror since leaving Hogwarts 'because what else am I gonna do? Work in a bank?!' This was only after an injury put him out of any chance of having a good Quidditch career. And how many wizards had 'Auror' as there second career choice?

"You've been an naughty boy, you know?" Chuck said to him, stirring a sugar cube into his own cup. "Going off on your own to see the Shafiq woman like that."

He just shook his head. "I'll make my excuse to the Chief. Where is he anyway?"

"With the Minister. And Fawcett, I shouldn't wonder. And they all want a piece of you, walking out in the middle of the night like that. There's been a bit of a barny about who gets jurisdiction. The Magical Law Enforcement Squad reckon that we can't investigate one of our own. Chief says bugger you, I do what I like. Fawcett will be sat there with a sponge and towel playing referee." They both laughed. "And the Muggle Liaisons want to have a go."

"Merlin, what do the Liaison think they're gonna do? Reckon there's a Muggle behind everything, bigots." Alastor said, snorting. "Bloody Fawcett the Younger will be tripping over his shoe laces trying to pin this on the nearest Muggle that looks at him funny."

Moody laughed, but Potter just stared at him. "Pin a suicide?" But then he saw the slow smile creeping on his friends face. "You know something I don't?"

Alastor just shook his spare hand. "Possibly. Go over the facts with me again?"

"Not much to tell that you don't know. Body was found in the hallway by his wife, the note to his head of department next to him. She'd just come back from some muggle things – kineemahs, whatever you call them – one thing we do now know is that he'd used a quick-quotes-quill to write it." Chuck spotted the question on Alastor's face, "Yes, first time I've heard of it too. Even put the date and time on it. Nothing much interest in the letter itself, like you saw, just made him sound like a bloody lunatic."

Alastor just shook his head, putting down his teacup in time to hear the door go behind him. With a cheery voice that did not match the almost painful, hunched back look he had, he called out behind him, "Morning, Chief! Give the Minister my best?" Rising and turning, he then added, "Good to see as well, of course, Mr Fawcett, sir."

Sure enough, Laurence Fawcett, his son Lionel in tow, entered the room ahead of the Chief and took his seat at the behind the desk, while the Chief went off to his side, in deference.

"Moody," Fawcett said curtly, glowering down his hawk like nose down at Alastor. "It's not good, Moody. Not good at all."

He nodded at his son, who produced the day's Daily Prophet and after stretching out his hand with it for Alastor. He took the paper promptly, the dropped it down on the table, before resuming his seat.

"If time is short, sir, and I think we all agree it is: let's cut to the chase."

Charlus was smirking across from him, biting on a finger so as not to make it appear so, and crossing one leg over the other, as if to casually contain himself. Fawcett's eyes narrowed, he grunted something, which might have been 'fine', and then got up to pace the room.

"We have an entire battery of newspapers wondering, two heads of department accusing and a Minister for Magic downright asking: has the Auror Office finally got out of hand. Unforgivables running free range from every wand; Dementors set loose on prisons without trial; and forced drinking of veritaserum. All being spoken of, Moody, because of you. Is that plain enough for your liking?"

"Perfectly, sir," he said, adjusting his sitting to make himself fill out more.

"Good," Fawcett resumed his seat. "Now let's have your side of the story."

Moody shrugged. "Nothing especially unusual. We had an anonymous letter, said one Hector Shafiq had been acting suspiciously, mentioned something about a connection to supporting Grindelwald while he was at Hogwarts but not much else. Chuck did some digging for me," Alastor took the chance to indicate Charlus, who winked at Lionel. "Then I went for a standard interview with him."

"There was no indication of who or where the letter came from?"

"None, sir. But whoever did was right about his school years. Not so interesting in itself, considering plenty in the Ministry had the same youthful folly."

Both Fawcetts reacted to this: the Younger cracked and flexed his knuckles, while the Elder merely raised an eyebrow, giving a noncommittal 'yes'.

"I understand that Shafiq was also accused of buying suspect artefacts from Borgin & Burkes." Laurence Fawcett went on, "And I have it from his Department certain important files are missing from his desk, though admittedly they haven't checked his home for them." Alastor braces himself, thinks he knows what is coming next, but then Fawcett changes direction. Must be he has more questions need answering. "You didn't go at him, Moody?"

"'Go at him', sir?"

"Get a bit rough, a bit physical. I'm told he could be difficult. No one would blame you if things got out of hand."

Calmly, Alastor rose to his feet, and for the first time looked Fawcett dead in the eye. "They didn't. I never touched him. We walked around Muggle London: Hyde Park and Piccadilly. Hundreds of Muggles to count for the fact, by all means go find and ask them." He leaves the challenge on the table for Fawcett to pick up, but he merely walks around it.

"Very well, so the death itself comes as a shock."

"Yes," A look from the Chief, who's stood quite, resting his back on the wall arms folded and observing the events – his look demands further information. "Not only does it means I've completely got the wrong idea of him, but also because I went too far in my brief." A chorus of raised eyebrows prompt him to explain. "I told him, he needn't worry."

Fawcett is astounded. "You did what?"

He sighs, "I told him he didn't need worry himself, we probably wouldn't investigate him any further."

The younger Fawcett sounds jubilant, "You took that much upon yourself, Moody?"

Charlus rises to his defence, "We often do, gentlemen. Only it doesn't get recorded. Of course, Alastor will in this case."

"Of course."

There is much sighing and consideration in the room, before Laurence Fawcett says, "The Minister is wanting a full and decisive investigation into the matter, which I had planned on giving him until this morning. Which of course brings us to a sticky point, Moody."

"Suppose it does, sir."

"Why did you go to the Shafiq house?"

"As I said earlier, sir: time. We haven't the hours to spare to bring any other department in, or to read someone else in to the case. I'll of course submit to supervision, but you need someone to sweep this thing over fast, before the Prophet gets there hands on something concrete. I've already seen the wife. Send someone else now, we'll look incompetent. You need me – as I'm sure you've already told the Minister. Otherwise, you'd have already sacked me."

"Arrogant, shit." Lionel Fawcett says, but he has his eyes on Laurence, who merely raises a finger to warn him, "Thin ice, Moody. That's not just you but the whole Office right now, when it breaks I am going to be there underneath it to chew you up: bones, flesh and gristle. You'll be out, the Office shut down and the whole thing handed over to MLEP. Understood?"

"Perfectly, sir."

From there Fawcett, father and son, leave. Leaving the three Aurors alone. The Chief at last speaks, "You won't be out, y'know. You'll be dead, Moody, I promise. Go," Nodding, he and Chuck both go to follow out the Fawcetts, but the Chief says again, "Not you, Potter. This is Moody's mess to clear up – I'm assigning him a watcher, someone from the Muggle Liaison Office to keep an eye on him. You're to keep your nose out of this, Charlus, if not then you'll be out of this Department ahead of Moody, clear?"

Chuck nods, then turns to Alastor, a hand out stretched. They shake, Charlus murmuring, "Good luck, Alastor. I'll be there when you need me."

He nods, "Thanks, Chuck. Love to Dorea." Then goes out alone. Alone, into the cold.


	3. Investigation and Emotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: Alastor meets his new partner for the investigation, and uncovers more questions that force him to return to Mrs Shafiq for another talk.

**Investigation and Emotion**

_Wednesday, 10:30A.M. – Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Auror Office, Investigations Department, Cubicle 7_

The knocking on his cubicle door came just as Alastor managed to tip his head back to sleep. He had a hat draped over his eyelids, and his feet propped up on his desk when the wrapping of knuckles on his door shook him back out of a sudden daze. Blinking he rubbed as his worn out eyes, put the hat on his desk, picked up his wand and flicked at the door, which unlocked, and shouted, "Come in!"

"Mister Moody, sir," Said a cautious, cockney voice.

"Yeah," Alastor rose from his chair, and shuffled a few papers around on his desk, "Come in." He made double sure that the locks on his desk draws were secure enough before motioning to the chair Alastor had across from his own. "Sit down."

"I'd prefer not to, sir," He said, before standing before the desk, straight as an arrow, as if he meant to salute him. "Edgar Bones, sir, MLE special liaison to Muggle Law Enforcement. Mr Fawcett says I am to give you a hand in your investigation with the death of Mr Shafiq, smooth things over with the Muggle police and the like."

"Mmm," Alastor said, looking the man up and down, "and is that especially likely? Given that Mr Shafiq was pure-blood, Mrs Shafiq, while Muggle-born, correctly alerted St Mungo's and the Ministry, Muggles have no clue or stake in this what so ever."

"Well, sir, I expect not then." He had reddish-brown hair, and small grey eyes to go with a thin head of hair and moustache, both flecked with same colours. Sighing, he took the seat that Alastor had offered him. "Truth is, I expected I've been sent here to keep an eye on you for Messers Fawcett, because you being the troublemaker you are, will have kicked up a right bees' nest on the top floor. And being as how they'll have Old Willy Tuft breathing down their necks so she can retire in peace come New Year, they don't trust you to do it alone. QED: I'm here making sure things go smooth as they like."

"And with that being the way things are, what do you make of the situation?"

Bones laughed. "I've been in this Department along time, Mister Moody, and seen plenty of good men flushed down the pan by stupid bosses. Fawcett and his boy are just the first in a long line. So sod 'em."

"Good to hear…" Moody grinned. "Fancy a drink?"

"Sir?"

Alastor pressed a finger to his lips, and tugged on his ears – the sign of mistrust in their surroundings plain to offer. "Leaky Cauldron do you?"

"Suppose so,"

Presumably to Edgar Bones' surprise, they really did go to the Leaky Cauldon and only once they were sequestered in a corner table, bottle of fire whisky on the table, and their first glasses drained, did Moody peel back the first veil. "I don't trust working from the Office, not if Fawcett's looming round every corner. We only meet to talk about this outside the Ministry, and never the same place twice. Okay?"

"Right as rain, sir," Bones said, draining his glass again, and refilling them both, "So what is the big secret?"

Moody leaned in close to whisper, "I don't think Hector Shafiq killed himself."

Bones shrugged, "Why?"

"When I went to talk to her, Mrs Shafiq told me she never slept. That she was an insomniac or some rubbish."

"And?" Bones once more drained a glass. "Heard lots of women say the same thing. Makes them seem more interesting, that kind of cobblers. Especially when they've got nothing to hide. When innocent people are bored they always try and make themselves look guilty."

Moody shook his head, "Not this one. You didn't see her, her face, her manor – no, she meant what she said to me, every word."

"Alright, what's so suspicious about that?"

"In of itself, nothing. But while I was there, Mrs Shafiq, received an owl to her home. An alarm call of sorts, delivered by owl. So…"

"So why would an insomniac get an alarm call? That's what you're thinking."

"Exactly," Alastor said, before downing his own whisky and offering to Bones to refill. "And, why didn't she know anything about it? I had to take it for her, she wasn't expecting it and when I told her it was for her she looked at me like I was speaking Merish. Or at least, she wasn't expecting that kind of call."

"You reckon someone else ordered the owl?"

"Yes."

"And you don't want anyone to know about this."

"If I could've avoided it, not even you, but now since you do know and you have freer movement than me, would you go investigate for me. I'll stay here, keep any tail off you, since I'm the one they're interested in, and finish this fine bottle."

"Alrigh'," Bones said, rising from the table to put on his traveling cloak, "I assume this place is somewhere down Diagon?"

Moody set his fourth glass down, and whispered, "Alwin's something or other."

Bones nodded, "I'll find it," and slipped through the crowd and out the front door to Diagon Alley.

* * *

The Bell above the door to Alwin's Aviary clinked open for only the seventh time that day. Not that the proprietor noticed. He'd all but given up on the day's trade being decent, and abandoned the front of his shop for the back room, where he consequently toiled in misery, shovelling the owl droppings off the floor. He hated his job, hated his shop, hated his uncle for leaving him the place, and hated even more his mother's obsession with owl breeding, which had now landed him with two hundred of the filthy beasts two years since she'd had the gall to up and die, leaving them all to him.

It wasn't as if he could just dump them all somewhere either. The bloody ministry looked down on that kind of thing, and even worse on mass extermination of owls, the interfering bastards. He'd tried making a few Galleons off them, but there was only so much demand for owls in a market that was already flooded with the feathery fuckers. So he'd been stuck with most of them, before he'd set up his shop which immediately fell into the red. Alwin always expected the goblins to be coming through his doors one day, so he didn't bother taking notice when it he heard the bell this time.

Only after the barking of, "This is the Ministry! Magical Law Enforcement Patrol!"

"Oh for Merlin's sake!" Alwin shouted, and threw down his spade onto the floor, which only woke up his stock, who started hooting, each very annoyed to be woken. "And you lot can bloody shut up!" He shouted up at the birds, and banged the door on the aviary shut behind him.

Looking around, he saw the Ministry figure at the shopfront, and immediately turned his nose up, saying, "I already told that Creature Control hag, that I can't stop the crappin' all over the Alley, its their business. She'll wanna come in here and try shovelling up after the bastards and count herself lucky."

The wizard stroked the corner of his greying moustache, looking unimpressed. "You'd be Alwin, then?"

"Yeah," and detecting he'd already gotten his first impressions wrong, Alwin immediately changed his tune, "What's this about?"

"I'm with the MLEP. We're investigating odd owl activity in the Hull area, one of the ones we intercepted was from this business, but we've not any record of a witch or wizard in the area. Care to explain yourself, and why you've been sending sets of Exploding Snap Cards to Muggle dwellings, Mister Alwin?"

"Oi, woah," Alwin said, backing off from the shop counter, "I ain't been sending nothing to no bloody Muggles."

"Lying to a member of MLEP is a very serious crime, Mr Alwin. Lies which will look very bad to the Wizzengamot, I assure you."

"Wizzenga- I ain't done nothing. I don't know anything about any deliveries."

"If you could check your records, sir."

"Y-yeah, course." Reaching below the counter, Alwin pulled out a diary of orders, and pushed it toward the wizard, who promptly started flicking through it at his leisure, until he settle on a page and name. "Do you remember this gentleman, sir? A mister Hector Shafiq, of Hull?"

Alwin trembled as he looked where the wizard indicated with his wand. "Yeah, I think so. Sort of tallish bloke. Wanted an alarm call each day until he didn't return the owl with the note. He only asked for it yesterday afternoon, and hasn't sent a note back."

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, sir," tutted the wizard, shaking his head reprovingly, "You're sure it was Mister Shafiq who ordered the owl?"

"I- I think so, sort of posh talking, and fancy dressed looking. Dunno what he'd need an alarm call for, seemed the type to have his house-elf wake him, b-but you see, well I need the money."

"How unfortunate, sir," The wizard slammed the book shut, and pushed it back to Alwin, "Thank you for your cooperation, however I must remind that in discussing what you've heard to day with another witch, wizard, muggle or other creature of near human intelligence will result in breaking the International Statue of Secrecy, Paragraph G, Section 2, which is punishable by immediate seizure of property, and incarceration in Azkaban without trial. Goodbye, sir."

And with that the wizard left, leaving Alwin with shit in his trousers to match his floor.

* * *

Edgar Bones resumed his seat opposite Alastor Moody in the Leaky Cauldron with ease. Moody had just about polished off the whole bottle of fire whisky to himself, and was waiting for Bones with a patient, "Well?"

He nodded, "Definitely Hector Shafiq who ordered the owl, supposedly done it yesterday with a plan to repeat if a reply came, stopped obviously since you didn't send a reply." Moody just nodded, looking into the middle distance.

"How did you get him to talk?"

"Told 'im I was MLEP and spat a story about snap cards and a load of jargon. He believed me, and he'll keep it quiet."

"Good," Moody said, draining what would be his final glass, and finally pouring a measure for Bones.

"I can be good, Mister Moody, and hear the same of you. Cheers." He toasted Moody.

"Hector Shafiq orders an alarm owl yesterday afternoon for this morning, only to poison himself that night."

"Things changed," Offered Bones, "A lot can happen, like that!" and snapped his fingers.

"Possibly…" Moody considered a moment, before asking, "What do you know about the body?"

Bones put down his raised glass to roll off the report like it was on autocue for him. "Found in the hallway of the house, bottle of poison underneath the body, sprawled out with the sealed letter beside him. There was a tea set laid out in the living room."

"What?"

"I know. Asks for an alarm owl, gets home, has a bewitched quill write out a suicide note, makes a full pot of tea, takes it through to the living room, goes out into the hallway and chugs down some poison."

"Teaset? Shafiq had made the tea _himself_? I'd assumed the undertakers had made it for her." Moody pinched his nose and sighed, "Bugger. Minister and Fawcett want this swept under as quickly as possible. But not this, none of it makes sense."

"What does your Office know about the quill?"

"His own, we think. My Office is testing it, probably still waiting for the results. Merlin's beard."

"You can't go back to your Office yet?"

"No, and if we stay here much longer we'll look suspicious cause I sure couldn't manage another bottle without eating something." Moody stood, motioning Bones to follow him. They left the Leaky Cauldron and stepped out onto the streets of Muggle London. He turned and said, "I'm going back to chat to Mrs Shafiq, want to hear her answer for why the owl came. You'd best go back to your office, try and keep Fawcett off me."

"Will do, sir, and good luck."

* * *

Mrs Shafiq welcomed him into her home in manner wholly different to his first visit. This time she seemed freshened, she must have slept, he reasoned, or had some kind of respite, for her face still fell with all the age it bore forced upon it and the weight of her whole emotions tying it down. However, her voice was pleasant, higher, and she seemed much more amiable – as if he'd given warning like a relative who need a bed for the night.

"I thought the owl might puzzle you, Mr Moody." She said, as he followed her once more through to her sitting room. It was much the same, only this time the tea set was gone. Presumably banished backed to its cupboard in the kitchen. They resumed their former seats as though they had come back from an intermission during a play, he one the corner of the sofa, she in the arm chair which looked set to devour her. "A woman who does not sleep sends out for an owl to wake her up?"

"Yes," Alastor said, offering her a smile that might have well been apologising for the inconvenience, "I must confess it did leave me scratching my head. However, I have some question from earlier I'd like to start with first." Moody reached into his coat, and pulled out the note pad he kept stored in the pocket, and with his wand conjured a quill from the tip. It was freshly inked, and he dropped a blot on the page, before raising his eyes back to Mrs Shafiq. "How often do you attend the Muggle cinema, Mrs Shafiq?"

She didn't seem especially interested in the question suddenly. For the first time in their conversations, she actually turned away from him on purpose, and stared blankly forward. "Yes, Mr Moody, I have an acquaintance with the owner. He allows me a fee seat, once a month for a meeting."

He wrote the key points down on the pad, just as he normally would. "And did your husband ever go with you?"

Her voice continued its plain tone. "No, never. My husband had no love of Muggle entertainment."

Alastor wrote it down, but then he paused and looked up at her. "But your husband told me he had a fondness for one Muggle actor. We passed a poster of him, Mr Shafiq said he rather liked Buck Lancashire – whatever his name was." Moody almost dropped his quill at her reaction, she suddenly turned her head to him and – Merlin's Beard – she was smiling. It was the first singular emotion he'd seen from her, as her whole face lit up and the years stripped away from her. It was like a toddler sat before him.

She whispered, more to herself, "On your walk…"

And then she did an about turn on their conversation. The smile receded, the years came back as though they'd never left. "Mr Moody," her voice was suddenly frank and curt, "the reason I sent for the owl was simple. My memory is seriously terrible, truly awful. I ask guests to stay over for weekends, and my husband and I are out when they arrive. Honestly, as bad as that." Her eyes seem to gloss over, crystallise, "When there is something I surely have to remember, I ask for an owl to be sent at the appropriate hour or day. It's like the owl's screeching will shout the answer out at me."

"And what was reason for this morning's letter?" His tone has not changed all conversation, he's formal and friendly, but his face turns placid, understanding, but what he wants her to understand is that he's offering her a way out now.

But she does not see it, "There you are. I'm at a loss for why I asked for the early owl."

He writes down what she has to say, then goes on with the other questions, but in truth even he has lost interest in them. He's got what he came for.

This time he walks out of the Shafiq house, and takes a wander through the streets of Hull before he apparates back to the Ministry. He lands in the reception amid a crowd, just about everyone else is heading back home. But not him. He's still not slept since Charlus called him. Sleep is gnawing back at him. It's long been 24 hours since he had any, and the feeling is waiting on him now. His liquid lunch and lack of sustenance aren't helping, but he's had worse, and gone through more with less.

* * *

The lift doors open, and lost in his own world, he nearly collides with Edgar Bones, who's panting. "Ah there you are, Mr Moody!"

He takes one look at him and knows the problem. "Fawcett sending out a search party."

He nods, "I was keeping an eye on your cubicle when I noticed a few too many secretaries lingering about that had no right too. Soon as I heard Lionel was on the warpath to his old man's office I scarpered, was coming to find you."

"Thanks," he says, stepping into the lift, "I'm about ready to face ole Larry Fawcett."

"Mrs Shafiq turn up good?"

He nodded grimly, "Claims to order the owl herself, on account of her bad memory. Unless it was delivering a remeberall I might've given her a chance."

The lift screeched and began to hurl itself downward. Bones held on to the sides for dear life. "So, what you reckon? She bumped her hubby off then?"

Moody frowned, and leaned into the wall of the lift. He though, considered a moment, then said, "No. In fact, I can't believe she has it in her to kill anyone, let alone her husband. She smiled only when I mentioned something about her husband. It was only emotion I saw in her. That wasn't the will to go on living. In survival, I think she would do anything – but he offered her no threat, and you can tell the way she mourns him."

"But you're still thinking that Shafiq was murdered."

Alastor said nothing: they had arrived.


	4. The Uninvited Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: After being badly received by Laurence Fawcett, Alastor delivers him an ultimatum before returning home.

**The Uninvited Guest**

_Wednesday, 6 P.M. – Ministry of Magic, Department for Magical Law Enforcement, Head of Department's Office_

You could tell that Fawcett wanted to bang his head against the desk. Or someone's head at least, and if you gave him the choice it would more likely be Alastor's. There was no Chief this time, nor Charlus, nor even Edgar Bones – kept outside like an errant schoolboy – just Alastor and Fawcett the Elder and Younger. Suddenly, Laurence Fawcett banged a fist on the table, that made his son flinch. Alastor stood his ground.

"We seem to be at crossed purposes, Moody," annoyed would be the politest description of his voice. "I send you out to find out why Hector Shafiq killed himself – correct," Alastor nodded, "But then you come back here and tell me: he didn't." Again he nodded.

"Mrs Shafiq lied to me, sir. She didn't request the owl – couldn't have."

Lionel sniggered and Laurence sighed, "What is about that damn owl that has you so obsessed?" He rubbed his hand where it had struck the table, "Take your point that he did order the owl, if you or I, anybody, had been driven to such a state as to kill themselves they could do any damned thing – however unlikely, or outrageous."

"Yes, outrageous. Like making a full pot of tea and pouring it into a cup, before deciding to just walk and neck the bottle of poison. Yes?"

"Yes," Lionel said, now looming across his father's desk to glower at Moody, "Even that."

"There's also something about the quick-quotes-quill that Shafiq wrote the note with. I want them all compared to the letter we received that informed us about Shafiq in the first place."

"This is sheer lunacy. You've gone mad, Moody!" Lionel laughed, exacerbated, pushing away from the table, turning his back and holding his hands out, as if to show he'd freed himself of the conversation.

"Possibly," Moody granted, nodding his head in deference of Lionel, "But there is a similarity, I'm sure. Sir, we need a full investigation team put together. Go to the Minister and ask for more time, show her the facts."

"Facts?" Lionel laughed again, "What bloody facts?"

"Thank you, Lionel," warned his father, an eyebrow raised in warning. The son duly scuttled off to his corner, while the father set his hands on the table, looking Alastor up and down. "Moody, surely you cannot expect me to go to the Minister on your suspicion – I won't even call it evidence – and say the healers at Saint Mungo's and the initial men on the scene got the facts wrong. You know the pressure coming down on this Office as it is especially."

Alastor slumped forward, his head in his hands. His head was pounding.

"Moody," came Fawcett's voice in a quaver, "Moody? Merlin's Beard, what's wrong with you?"

"I'm tired," came his muffled sigh. He pushed himself upright, and rested his worn face in his right palm, while his left offered a piece of parchment to Fawcett. "Found this on my desk this morning, sir. It's from Shafiq, arrived this morning, which means it was sent through the post yesterday, probably written yesterday as well, after my interview."

Both Fawcett's frown, Lionel offering a petulant, "And?"

"Shafiq asks for a meeting," he indicated the letter with his wand, "today, in the Leaky Cauldron, claiming he had vital information for me."

Laurence took the letter off the table, and handed it off to his son for verification, asking, "Why have you kept this to yourself?"

"I wanted to know your reaction to what _I_ had to say, sir," Alastor said, rising from his chair, nostrils flared, voice raised, "Now I know, and it's clear that I no longer have the confidence of my Head of Department. I shall send you resignation in the post." He didn't stay to hear a response. He left quietly, offering Bones a shake of the head as he caught him on his way out.

* * *

"Arrogant, posing bastards," Moody said to himself, loud enough to scatter a flock nearby birds, nesting in a hedge.

As usual, he'd disapperated as soon as he had left the Ministry, but rather than land on his front door, he'd landed further away, knowing he needed the walk to calm his temper. That had always been a flaw of his, bloody temper. That prickliness, the gut feeling urge to just run down an opposing force – it had caused more than a few problems for him. His whole youth had been one of sheer, barely contained anger. There had only been one thing that looked to tame him, but Druella Rosier was long out of his life.

Still, he'd learned to face off the inquisitors like Fawcett in his training. And temper techniques. Why had they not come to him? Where had the mirror gone? Why had he not held himself as a mirror to Fawcett, taken on his shape, and flattered the misgivings out of him. Or better yet, where had his shield gone? Why had he not let the blows fallen, then shrug them off? Just smiled and nodded, then gone and flat ignored Fawcett. Dru would have reminded him, he thought. The fact of her in his life would have done it, he would have changed with her, calmed that burning anger in him.

Bored and mollified, Moody turned round and walked back home. He had a hand on his gate when he stopped. From the corner of his eye, something had moved. He paused and stared at his house for signs of life. There was nothing. But there was that feeling along his spine: trouble. A hand on his wand from inside his coat, he whispered a few charms, and felt his nose grow longer and hair change colour, before pulling the papers he had packed from his office out of the same pocket, obscuring his wand beneath them. When he arrived at the door, he checked the Protean Charm on the knocker, it was hot to the touch, which meant intruder. He paused again, and leveraged a grip on his wand, before knocking on the door with his spare.

It took a few times before someone answered. A stranger for sure, who stared him up and down, wondering why, but he couldn't guess why what. "Yes?"

"Good evening!" He said, brightly brandishing his worst English accent, "Sorry for the late call, but is Mister Alastor Moody in?"

The figure paused, dumbfounded. "Will you not come in?" Sure enough, he must have recognised him some how

"No thank you," Then brandishing the pile of papers, Alastor all but flung them at the stranger, "Would you give him these?"

The stranger dropped his wand, as he fumbled with the flurry of parchment and ink. In that moment, Alastor thought to stun the man, but then thought better of it. There could be others, better for him to retreat.

"Papers from his office," he said, smiling and turning with a grin. "Goodbye." He shut the gate behind him, and immediately apparated away.

* * *

Edgar Bones had bigger glasses than the Leaky Cauldron, for which Alastor could at least be thankful. "Thank you," he murmured quickly, and downing the full glass.

Bones didn't flinch or raise an eyebrow. He merely poured another. "Don't mention it," he said, setting the bottle beside Moody on the coffee table, before folding himself into an adjacent seat. His watchful gaze remained on Moody all the time, stating, "You've had a shock."

Moody didn't bother protesting, he knew he was already imposing on Bones as was. He didn't need a harder time than Alastor was already giving him, noting, "Bastard was there to kill me. I'm sure of it."

"Merlin," gasped Bones, a hand going to his brow.

"Though he wouldn't have expected me to knock. I'm sure I saw him at the window, but I don't think he got a good enough look at me. Obviously he knew who I was, even after I transfigured myself. Must have seen me, even recognised my voice, I shouldn't doubt. But he couldn't have counted on the papers I'd took with me – not like that wholly convinced him. Whoever heard of the Ministry sending long-beaked, ginger men to deliver Aurors their papers in the middle of the night?"

"Quick thinking on your part," Bones offers, commendation in his voice, "very good work, sir."

"I'm surprised he didn't curse me while my back was turned."

Edgar does his usual conciliatory refilling of glasses. "Still, Hector Shafiq gets done in yesterday, and you follow him today. Coincidence?"

He merely rolls his eyes in response. "I got your address from your office, hope you don't mind?" Bones shakes his head, and Moody hands him a note from his pocket. "While I was there, I got a list of magic performed in the area all day. Could you do me a favour and look into them tomorrow?"

Bones grabs the list, stares at the list of specific wands in the area, and asks quietly, "Is this legal?" He just shrugs, and Bones offers a wary, "Can't your own Office look into this?"

Alastor laughs. "Didn't Fawcett tell you? I've resigned. Free as a hippogriff, and less employable." He sinks his firewhisky. "Will you do it?"

A shrug. "Sure." Bones says, reading this, before gesturing upstairs, "Umm, I've a spare room here if you'd like it."

Moody missed his glass, and spilt whisky onto the table "Oh, well…" He thought a minute. He needed a bed, a place to stay. He didn't count on his home being safe.

Edgar Bones suddenly looked regretful, probably wishing he hadn't offered. "Up to you 'course. Got family or a friend's place to stay?" He shook his head. "Colleague even?"

"Not really, no."

Technically, he didn't have any colleagues anymore. He'd resigned as an Auror. His thought had been to go to Charlus Potter, he and his wife, Dorea, would have put him up with a bed. But if whoever was after him knew his home, it could be counted on that they knew Charlus and Alastor wasn't about to risk anyone else's life on account of his sleeping arrangement. But there was no else he trusted to keep Fawcett off his back.

"It's not a grand arrangement. But it'll do." Bones said, sparingly.

"Thank you for the bed," Moody grunted, pushing up from his chair. He flopped straight down on the bed as soon as he reached it.


	5. The Underbelly of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: To follow up another lead in Shafiq's murder, Alastor tags along with Edgar Bones as they dip a toe in to the dark heart of Knockturn Alley.

**The Underbelly of the Beast**

_The next day: Thursday, 9 A.M – Bones' House_

Alastor woken comparatively refreshed the next morning. Entering the small kitchen, he was glad to see that Bones was wide awake and had been for some time at least, there was a pot of tea on the table with a stream of steam escaping the spout. Moody poured himself a mug, sat down and took some deep gulps. Bones had the morning's _Prophet_ , setting it down he told Alastor, "Nothing interesting there. Nothing about you, and no follow up about the Shafiq incident."

Alastor shook his head, "No, didn't expect there to be. Fawcett will have the _Prophet_ keeping a lid on it till he can get his ducks in row."

After finishing off the last bit of toast on his breakfast plate, Bones shuffled in his chair, then retrieved from his back pocket a scrap of paper. "I went into the office early this morning, did your little bit of digging on those wands. Think we can do without three of 'em, one is yours obviously, two I've put an eye on, but this last one we can look at ourselves."

"Why?" asked Moody, sucking down on more Darjeeling.

"It was reported stolen in America three years ago, but the way it was casting looks like it was tampered with. Sure signs of travelling and been sold on the black market. I know a geezer specialises in selling black market wands, back when I was on the beat in Diagon Alley with the regular MLEP. If he didn't sell it on himself, he's bound to know someone who will have."

He rose from the table, and Bones followed, each man put there travelling cloak on before stepping out into the grey morning. Moody grunted as they moved down the street. "Name?"

"I know him as Buster Reynolds, never did get a proper first name," he adds, "normally rattles around Knockturn Alley. You the kind of Auror that can still wander around that end without getting a jinx in the back."

Moody shrugged, "So long as I keep my head down, and some one can watch my back. You know this bloke, I'll follow your lead." Bones nodded, and they apparated away.

* * *

The pub they found Reynolds in was a dark, and dingy place full of the usual scum of the earth that you found in the wizard criminal underworld. A nailed up sign outside gave the name 'The Black Beast' and it was no more cheery a place than it sounded. Just as they had done in the Leaky Cauldron, Moody ordered a bottle and glasses and they sat in an adjacent corner while Bones kept an eye on their quarry. He had a briefcase with him, and was eyeing up potential buyers while he waited for a contact of some kind.

Bones had brought the mornings copy of the _Prophet_ with him. He had it flat out on the table, while leaning back and straining his eyes to look at it. Alastor noted how well he blended in to the environment, and suspected that Bones had spent at least some time here while he was off hours. For someone in the Department so familiar with a place like this to blend in so well with the surroundings was unusual. But then it was that kind of place – Merlin could have walked in and sat at a table, and no one would have paid him any mind. They wouldn't even have looked up from their own business.

"Muggles," Bones suddenly said, his attention caught by something on the page. "Bloody muggles. They're at it again, blowing each other up." He turned the page and found something else to appal him, "Huh, and even bloody worse: pure-bloods in Germany. They've been kicking the squibs around again, some Muggle-borns too come the look of it…" Edgar sighed. "If I was a squib on the Continent…

He trailed off, but Moody supplied an interested "You'd what?"

Another sigh, "Merlin knows. Get out? No idea how, though. Can't apparate. You'd think they have a better time of since Gindlewald went."

Alastor shrugged, "It's not as bad for them now. I've been through Germany, not as bad as the _Prophet_ makes it sound. America is where it's really bad. For everyone. Still can't marry muggles in America, Merlin knows why."

Bones suddenly shifted, "Here, looks like he's on the move."

His nose firmly in his glass, Moody managed a quick peak of Reynolds as he scurried through a door to private room. He set his glass down, and pushed his chair back. "How do you want handle it?"

Edgar scratched at the corner of his chin. "I'd best talk to him alone. Outnumber him, put him under pressure and he'll run or clamp up. You go wait outside, he'll probably have someone keeping an eye on him from out here. They'll come for you if they see me go in." Moody nodded reluctantly, grabbed his cloak and slipped through the crowd. He left behind a small bag of coins. Bones tossed them around to feel the weight, secured them in his own pocket and followed after Reynolds.

* * *

The room was just a glorified cupboard, with a booth fitted in. His man was seated with the briefcase upon in front of him. They were alone, and Reynolds starred at Bones unfazed as he entered.

"Buster Reynolds."

"You are correct, squire." He said, with a voice that crackled like burning paper.

Bones knocked the door shut and relaxed his shoulders so he filled out the room more. He had the note in his hand, and read the description in detail. "Beech. Unicorn hair. Between nine and ten inches."

Reynolds just shrugged and look back down at the inside of his briefcase. "You speak in code, squire. Sheer riddles, friend."

He scrunched up the list and replaced it to his pocket, before taking a seat at the far end of the booth. "It's your wand, Buster. Don't bollock me about, there's a good lad."

Reynolds looked up and tried to examine Bones at close range, "Do I know you from the back when, Mr Auror?"

"Tell me about the wand you sold."

He shrugged, and turned away again, "What's to tell? Might have been mine, but now she ain't."

"Well where is it then?" Bones sighed, his patience thinning.

"Oooh, I have seen the light, friend," Reynolds held his hands up. His voice pitched up, and his hands turned out his empty pockets. "I am but an honest broker of high-end objects. These are hard times. And the cost of living ain't about to shrink. If information is what you want, well… it's an item, like any other. And I'll sell my back teeth for enough galleons."

Bones rolled his eyes, and dropped two galleons on the table.

Reynolds sucked a breath in through his teeth, he picked up one of the coins and bit into it. Then he pocketed them both and looked back to his merchandise. "Bloke come to me three weeks ago, well to do – and Irish. Wanted a wand, but said he couldn't afford Olivander's prices, could I set him up with something. I show him this lovely little thing I got my hand, but he does like my price, so I says to 'im if he 'adn't spent so much on his crap clothes the price wouldn't be an issue. Next thing I know, I'm starring up at the sky with a cracked tooth and he's got my merchandise halfway down Diagon Alley before he Apparates off."

"And you didn't report this to anyone?"

"Well, factors in the products manufacture made me reconsider that option." Reynolds cackled.

"Meaning you'd already had it stole from someone else."

He suddenly stopped laughing, and looked seriously offended. "Slander," but then he turned more sheepish, "but the party I did obtain it from was suspect, yes."

"That's a lie," Bones was on his feet, leaning over the table, but his voice stayed soft, "And if anything else you've told me ends up a lie, then I'll come back and break your legs."

At first, Reynolds seemed to withdraw, but then he recognised him. "Bones. Edgar Bones, got you now. Ye ole lover of the giantess." He cackled again, and Bones struck out with his wand and the briefcase shattered into splinters. He waved it again and Reynolds was hanging spread eagle from the ceiling.

Bones left him with a final warning. "Don't make me have to come back for you."

* * *

Alastor leant against a lamppost, his arms crossed. He stood the way petty criminals could stand the world over, always glimpsing up and down the street, keeping an eye on his exits. Anyone who might have known him would have mistaken his attentions for bad, which at least meant he blended in with the regular loiterers. This corner of Knockturn Alley was as good as dead, the only signs of life being the lights coming from the Black Beast.

He was lost in thought until he mindlessly kicked a stone across the cobbles. Moody watched it go. Then he kicked another, this time he put some real weight behind it, and the stone became airborne, until it bounced off something. Or at least it looked like it did. Moody cocked his head. Then kicked another stone at the same place.

A sudden hand went to his wand, and Moody swore before the curse came out of thin air that lifted him straight off his feet. He went flying backward and crashed against the wall of the shop behind him, banging his head. Dazed from the pain where it had landed and the blow to head, Alastor struggled to raise his wand and his vision was blurred. He fired a mindless stunner vaguely in the direction of the first spell.

A second answered his reply, but it missed his face by an inch. The shock of the second attack shook him awake again, he rolled away from the shop wall and dove behind an abandoned market stall for cover, another spell following.

Rising quickly from cover, Moody threw a jinx at the nothing that was attacking him. " _Impedimenta_!" It landed absently against a window, shattering it. But Alastor held his ground and saw a new curse coming for him. " _Protego_!" His shield absorbed the blast and no sooner was it down then Moody shouted, " _Depulso_!" He saw the invisbility cloak give way, as a leg suddenly appeared out of thin air and he sent a stunner flying after it.

The blow landed, the leg stumbled and Moody vaulted the market stall, advancing on the disembodied leg as another revealed itself. " _Impedimenta!_ " but this time there was a pained " _Protego_!" that answered, and the jinx ricocheted. Alastor continued to approach, but a new curse was shouted to the left of him from another disembodied voice.

It landed square against his chest again, and Alastor stopped and staggered. A hand went to his chest as he felt a tightness constricting it, before another spell caught him that threw him back off his feet. He felt himself flying again only to land with a crash against the stall that had been his cover. It smashed to pieces amidst the force of him landing against it and all he could do was feel the blackness creeping upon him as his consciousness slipped away, buried beneath a blanket of shattered wood.


	6. Visiting Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: After the attack in Knockturn Alley, Edgar Bones seeks retribution; Alastor lies in hospital, with his ghosts for company; and Charlus Potter visits Saint Mungo's carrying a new breakthrough.

**Visiting Hours**

_Saturday, 11 A.M – Hogsmeade Village_

The force of Bones' spell shattered the door into smithereens. Bits of broken planks scattered across the bar room of the Hog's Head Pub of Hogsmeade, splinters landing in uncovered glasses. As Bones' figure filled the doorway, he glanced round the room and saw the panicked face of his quarry, wand in hand.

" _Expelliarmus_!"

It flew out of Reynold's hand and landed as another absent piece of wood on the carpet. But that wouldn't stop Buster from trying to escape. Tripping over tables and chairs to get out, he flung his glass at his pursue to buy time to escape, but it didn't stop Bones, who with a flick of his wand sent the glass flying back at him. It smashed over the back of his head just Reynolds went tumbled through the window.

A full days snowfall cushioned his landing face down from a window, as shards of glass scattered about him. He was no sooner shuffling to move again that Bones was back on him, wand in hand, conjuring ropes that coiled around his hands and feet. The ordinary citizens of Hogsmeade that had been watching the events were suddenly put off, as he bellowed at them, "Magical Law Enforcement Patrol! Go back to your business!"

"Bloody bastard," Reynolds was cursing, blood coming it spit from his mouth. Gerroff me, Bones."

"Shut up!" Bones laid a hand on his shoulder, and apparated them both away. They landed a few streets away, down an abandoned alleyway no one used. The ropes on Reynold's legs eased away and disintegrated, Bones landed a kick on his rump, "Get up!" He said, and added another kick for good measure.

"Help!" the prisoner tried to cry, "Help! Arrgh!" But as Bones flexed his wand, the ropes still round the chest constricted and strangled the further cries out of him.

"I said: Get up! Else I'll leave here for dead!"

"Oh! Ease u-up, Edgar. C-can't breathe." He coughed and spluttered as he writhed to his knees.

"You shouldn't have the right to breathe." Bones kicked him again. "A name, I want his name. Gimme the name!"

"Ah! I-I don't have a name!" Reynolds folded over again, his face back in the snow. He panted and spat blood onto the floor. "H-he was Scots, alright. Not Irish. And old, too. But not well off looking. Scruffier than a house-elf. He wanted a wand every now and again, always a different one. Never kept them for long either, but he definitely had one of his own."

Bones relaxed his wand arm a bit, the ropes gave a little and Reynolds squirmed to get more comfortable. "What did he want the wands for?"

"Bugger if I know," He was panting hard, head dipped to the floor. "He never said, and I never asked – discretion was what he paid for, twenty galleons every time he came to me. Regular as clock work, once a month. Starting beginning of this year."

"And a name?"

"I told you I don't have a name!"

Again, Edgar flexed his wand arm, and the slackened ropes re-tightened. "Ack! Al-All I ever called 'im was Jock!"

"Jock?"

"Yeah, wouldn't tell me a name, said I should pick one: I picked Jock, knock-kneed, Scottish pillock. Miserable sod he was. Never cracked a smile, swore he'd sooner kill than smile. God knows, I believed 'im. There was an address, too, where I had to send the wand by owl," He fumbled with a scrap bit of parchment, "Take it!"

"Accio!" The parchment zoomed from one wand to the other.

"That's all I know, swear!"

Then Bones made an ark with his wandarm which sent Reynolds flying through the air. He land against a set of dustbins that all toppled over, the contents spilling all over him, while the ropes vanished. Edgar sheathed his wand, and loomed over him. "You are a sorry waste of flesh, Buster. The next time you and I cross paths, I'll have you under lock and key in Azkaban." Before he turned on his heels and evaporated into the air.

* * *

_1 P.M. – Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, Artefact Accidents ward_

In his dreams, his ghosts come to visit him. They come to his bedside and converse with him. They make up for his lack of visitors. First to come is his grandfather, who stands at the foot of his bed, shaking his head with arms folded. Pipe clamed between his teeth, the tobacco smoke fills the room, he takes his flat cap off to wipe his brow with it, the scrunches up inside his back pocket. Grandad is here to scold him.

"You're loosing your edge, lad." He clicks his fingers, and the smoulder pipe bowl sparks a little, before more suitable smoke jest forth from between his teeth. "Luck! That was all saved ye. No one should been able t' sneak up on ye like 'at. Think I e'er let someun sneak on me? Nah. What I always tell you? Constant vigilance. Bloody Knockturn Alley, what you expec'in'? Enemy just gone come out 'oldin' a bunch o' flowers? Still, did good spottin' t' killer at home. An' you knew he was a killer. Did well not picking a fight 'at time. There'd 'ave been more o' them, an' you don' need a pile o' bodies to clean up."

Grandad leaves after that. He lets in Druella Rosier on his way out. She's wearing black, as if she's expecting to go to a funeral, but then she always looked prettiest in black. She takes a seat at his bedside, takes up a cloth and mops the sweat from his brow. "Poor little toad." She calls him, "And you are still a toad, Alastor."

This time he feels the need to make conversation. "You are to blame for that, Dru."

Her brow wrinkles, she tosses her hair over her shoulder, where it spills down her back, and she cranes her neck to giver herself that regal look she had when he irritated her. "And how do you arrive at that conclusion?"

He slackens the feeling on his face, and grabs her hand. "You should have married me. I wanted to wander down that aisle, wanted you to give me that kiss that would turn me to a prince."

She smiles, sadly, the same way he did when he last saw her, "Silly boy." He looks away from her. "You're Grandfather is right, you know? You're slipping, and you know you shouldn't. Alastor, you've had the feeling for a while now, that something bad is coming, why let yourself go to waste now? Luck won't carry much longer. Whoever killed Hector Shafiq now wants to kill you. You've no Ministry, no back up, no Slug Club, no Charlus or Alphard. No Dumbledore or anyone. Right now it's just you."

Edgar Bones walks in, panting, "Good you're awake." He pays Druella no mind, who carries on to stare out the window.

"I've got Edgar Bones," He thinks, "Who needs Albus Dumbledore when there's a maniacal, cockney on my side?"

Druella laughs, but Bones still doesn't see her. "Yes, I do like your new comrade. Here's a man I should love to meet."

Bones has a pipe in his mouth, like Grandad's, which blows a new coloured cloud of smoke with every drag he takes on it. "I had another word with Reynolds," He says, "And I think I've got the bastards. There's an address, I've had it checked out, and would you Adam and Eve it? It's a Ministry house. Part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation – Hector Shafiq's department – who are currently leasing a group of Eastern European wizards, whom we only know as the 'Committee for the Regulation of trade in the Dark Arts'. Know anything about this?" He turns his head. Druella has gone. "Mister Moody? Still with us?"

He turns back, inciting a croak, "Yes." He rubs his brow. There's no moisture to the touch. The smell of tobacco is too fresh, there's only Bones' in the air. "They turned up last year. Looking to do some cross-border work hurting down Dark magic and objects with the different Departments: Law Enforcement and International Cooperation."

"Well, I went and had a peep. Place is barren, boarded up, no furniture or signs of life. Muggle witnesses say that they all buggered off come Monday."

"The same day that Hector Shafiq was killed."

"Exactly."

Bones stares at him, awaiting instructions. He thinks, or tries to, he's still hurting from the wizard's curses that struck him and the stall that ambushed him – or was it the other way around. His mouth is dry, but cogs try their best to turn over in his head. "Do you know Charlus Potter?"

A raised eyebrow. "I know of him."

"Go find him, and drag him here. By the ankles if you have to."

He nods, then takes a look around his room. "Not a bad gig, they've had improvements since the last time I was in." He flashes his eyes mischievously, "You've not mentioned my pipe."

"Dashing, truly," he says, dryly. "Like Pop-Eye."

"Who?"

He snickers, and Bones ignores the jib. "Bought it for my retirement. Nothing else to do but relax."

"Not for many years, I'm sure."

Bones shrugs, "Tomorrow."

They both sigh, "Well that's two out of work and out of pocket."

"Sure, and never been busier." Bones opens the window, upends his pipe, and the ashes go off into the breeze. "I'll go find your man."

"Thank you."

* * *

When Charlus arrives, he wakes him up with the force of his argument with the nurse who runs the ward like a third-rate dictatorship. She, small and Welsh, has a finger raised at Charlus which is so close to his nose that it would be a question of an inch to push the glasses which Chuck always has all but hanging off his face.

"Injury to the head such as he has suffered could have lasting damage. Brain trauma, amnesia, paranoia…" As she goes on listing, he can only how wonderful a way to find all this out.

Chuck just shrugs the matter off. "He's had many a knock to the head, nurse. Any of those ailments would only improve his demeanour, I assure you."

She bristles, "I can believe as much if he's as insubordinate as you are, Mr Potter."

"Thank you, nurse." And finally tired over, Charlus puts a hand on her arm and eases her out of the door. He turns, sees that he's now awake, and grins, "You've had a lot of fun and games without me. Not planning any new disappearing acts abroad now, are we?"

Alastor grins back, shakes his head, "What did you do to set her off?" He asks, pointing after the nurse.

Chuck looks after her, and shrugs, "Breathe. Reminded me of Dorea for a moment," he looks back at him and winks, "on a bad day." Then moves to a chair beside the bed, where he'd imagined Druella sitting. "She sends her love, by the by. Not that she knows where you are yet."

"Merlin," he says, clucking his tongue, "Should hope not. Dunno whether she'd smother me or take charge of the ward."

They share a laugh, and Charlus says, "Both I shouldn't think, though which order she'd do it in I couldn't guess."

Silence settles between them. It's uncomfortable because silence is so rare between them, and unable to stand it, Charlus finally says, as if in pain, "What the hell happened? How'd you get here? And what's the truth behind this rumour you've been sacked?"

Saddened, he whispers, "Resigned. Not sacked." Charlus' eyes go wide like saucers. "As for the rest, well… Whoever is trying to bump off me, is probably the same person who murdered Hector Shafiq."

"Merlin's beard," Charlus whispers, then he's back on his feet, venom in his voice. "Bastard Fawcett. Both of them. They'll destroy the whole Office and then the Department given the chance. After that each other, and the whole bloody ministry." He splays his hands out on the wall, his back to him, as if to keep them both where he can see what they're doing, like he doesn't trust them.

Then Edgar Bones comes in, murmuring a quick, "Gentlemen."

"Sit, both of you," He says, "I want to tell you both what I think is going on."

Edgar nods and does as bid, but Chuck stays standing, he merely puts his arms down and back to the wall. "Please do…"

"When I had my talk with Shafiq, we did it outside on the streets – where anyone could have seen us. So what if he and I were seen? By someone who recognized us both."

Bones offers, "Someone that wouldn't want Shafiq and an Auror talking?"

"Yes. The kind of person that wanted them rid of so badly, that they thought Shafiq had to be killed. And if Shafiq had let slip enough of the wrong information, that I had to be killed as well."

"All very good, sir," Bones said, before adding, "but it's not as if we have the evidence to go on."

He growled a little, but conceded the point, asking, "What about the wife? Mrs Shafiq? She's been lying none stop to me. About the owl, who asked for it."

Chuck cocked his head to one side, "I've got something. I followed up on your comparing the quill who wrote the tip off, and Shafiq's suicide note: they were both done by the same quill. Shafiq's quick-quotes-quill. But it was definitely done by different person using it. It's supposed to mimic tone and pressure, the way you use a real quill, and the difference is enough to tell."

Bones leaned forward, "So, what? Shafiq does write the letter?"

He shakes his head, "I'm not convinced of that yet. But what about the wife, and the tipoff?"

"You think Mrs Shafiq wrote to the Office, dobbing in her own husband?"

"I don't know. But there's one thing I keep thinking about. Bones, what were those purebloods causing mayhem in Germany called?"

"Erm…" He shares an odd look with Charlus, as if they think he's finally lost it. "The Knights of something? Walburg? Wallop?

Chuck supplies a shocked, "Walpurgis. The Knights of Walpurgis. We had a memo circulate the Office yesterday about them. Supposed to be some up and coming pureblood mania cult on the Continent. Europe's new big bad. What are you thinking, Alastor?"

"I'm thinking, where were the members of Committee for whatever from?"

Another shared look between the other two men. This time they look almost frightened, the question doesn't need any other answer. "So," Bones says, "you reckon that the Committee was just a cover for these Knights, and any work they're doing in England?"

"Possibly. What do we… what does the Office know about these Knights?"

"Nothing, literally nothing. Nor does any of the Auror groups in the rest of Europe. They're highly secretive bunch, just coming out of the woodwork all over. Don't even know anything about who there leader is or where they came from. Only thing we do have is they don't advertise – don't even use given names."

"How do you mean?"

"Well this memo, came from France. Some chap in their Ministry was being blackmailed. Didn't know by who, they wouldn't even tell poor bloke any of their names, that if he had to he had to name them. In the end he ran squealing to the French Aurors, who turned him away, said he was being paranoid – then he rocks up dead. French aren't worried, say these Knights are just rich kids that like the drama. They don't believe anyone using a joke like the naming game is worth their time."

Bones suddenly swears, "That's the same game that Buster Reynolds played with his wand buyer: Jock. Wouldn't give a name, so Buster called him Jock."

"And this 'Jock' bloke, when did he ask for a new wand from Reynolds?"

"Once a month."

He ponders, and Chuck gets irritated, "What's going on in that head, Al?"

He blinks, "Don't call me Al." After consideration he follows, "I remember, Hector Shafiq's job always had him taking home certain papers for review once a month. Links are forming between Shafiq and these Knights of Walpurgis. What do we know about the people who staffed the Committee? Pictures? Names?"

But Chuck sighs a painful, "Alastor… you're off the books, remember? You resigned."

He sighs as well, "Yes, I know. But whoever recognized me, maybe I'll recognize them? Maybe it'll be the swine you broke into my house. Try, Chuck, please."

"Of course… Dorea is gonna love hearing about this, God help me."

"Thank you," He turns to Bones, "Find out whether Mrs Shafiq really went to the Muggle cinema the night her husband died. Use them Muggle Liaison techniques at last."

Bones rises, "Back on the beat after ten years. Lovely." He pauses before Charlus in the doorway. "What will you do, Mr Moody?"

He shuffles out of the bedsheets, "I'm going back home. And if any scrawny, German or Scottish pureblood maniacs are waiting for me when I get there, then new wands won't be the only thing they'll need."


	7. Into the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: While regrouping with Charlus and Edgar after his turn in hospital, Alastor stumbles onto a name that sheds some light on the mastermind behind Shafiq's death.

**Into the Past**

_Sunday, 4:27 P.M – The Leaky Cauldron_

"Are sure you're supposed to be drinking, Alastor? So soon after you had that bang on the head?" Charlus asks him, looking cautiously at the generous measurements of firewhisky that he pours out in to the three separate glasses.

"Course I do," he replies, setting the bottle down and knocking back the first glass, before replenishing his stores. "I spent enough hours as a kid wiping this stuff off the tables to know how to handle it."

"Still I think we could have found a better place to meet. Somewhere quieter."

"Why? We've got nothing to hide. No secrets."

Charlus shakes his head. "Is that what you want Fawcett to think? Thought I recognised some of his spies hanging around the bar."

"Exactly. All they'll see is me drinking myself senseless, no doubt morose and weeping at my lack of prospects now that I'm out of the Ministry. And you and Edgar get to look like the consoling friends, in vain trying talk me down from the edge." He raises his glass in a toast. "Your health, Chuck."

"Well I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that. Larry Fawcett could do with some good news about now. Whole Department's caving in, y'know."

"Really?"

"Yep," He's grinning, "Someone let slip that old Fawcett sacked you. Now the whole Auror Office has gone up in arms. Carrington's started beating his war drum, gives the Office a week before the Goblins rise up and we all fall into dissolution; and Alfie's sent Fawcett an owl, swears he'll resign if you aren't reinstated, and that he's gonna bring the whole weight of the Great and Ignoble House of Black on his head."

Alastor laughs, "Can always count on Alphard to make people's lives difficult." He takes another swig of whisky. "Did you turn anything up on the Committee?"

"A little." He uses his wand, and conjures a folder with several pieces of parchment. "Magical Cooperation had all their names on file, have a look." He flips the folder open, then he waves a hand up in the air, his eye having caught someone, and Edgar Bones pulls up a chair beside him. "Well?"

"Good news and Bad."

"Let's start with the bad."

Bones takes the third glass at the table, slugs it, pants and sighs, before setting it back down. "Buster Reynolds is dead."

Charlus sighs, "Merlin's left bollock."

"Do we know how?"

"Not really. It's been reported to the MLEP as a mugging that went south, though I expect we know better. Nothing was reported missing or possibly stolen. Look like whoever tried robbing him got more than they bargained for, and just killed him – then dumped his body. It turned up early this morning, the muggle police found it, MLEP were just heading out smooth things over with them. My guess is that our boy 'Jock' is tying up his loose ends for good."

"Yeah, and he's not waiting around with poison and fake suicides, or invisibility cloaks. Now it's just plain, ruthless murderer."

Charlus leans across the table. "Whoever this is, they could be coming for you next, Alastor."

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, "I'm not so sure. He's already tried twice, and failed. If he's moved onto Reynolds then it probably means he's given up moved on. If not, well… let him try his luck in a fair fight." His eyes glance down, he tried to absorb himself in the list of names, only for his eyes to fix irreversibly on one.

Bones chews on his bottom lip, worried. "Otherwise, I did some checking up on Mrs Shafiq: by all accounts she does regularly attends the Muggle cinema once a month, only problem is she's never there alone and it's not with her poor husband."

"Then who?"

"Scottish gent. If I had to guess, our man Jock again."

Charlus swears, "So she's involved. Another hunch coming home true, Alastor. Alastor?"

"Mister Moody? Sir?"

He's drifted away again. The name he found. Of all the names, it had to be _that_ one. It could only have been pure, sheer spectacular chance, a thousand in one coincidence. Except, he's had to learn the fact that there are no coincidences in the work of an Auror. His voice is small, "You read this list, Chuck?"

"No," and then tries peering over the table, attempting to read the problematic name.

He hands over the file. "Miklós Bethlen."

* * *

Autumn, 1946 – Durmstarng Institute for Magic, Castle Grounds

" _It's snowing" said Charlus._

" _Yes, I know." Alastor replied._

" _It's October. And it's snowing." Charlus repeated._

" _Very observant of you, Chuck," Alphard Black commented, as he led their path forward, feet crunching through the snow which had offended Charlus so much._

_From the rear of their column of five, Peter Carrington called, "Yes, old boy. Only the fifteenth time you've mentioned it today."_

_Charlus stumbled once more despite the enormous swathes of snow that Alphard and Alastor were cutting through for him, "Bloody ridiculous. Snow! In October!"_

" _Yes: Snow, Chuck! We Bloody know already! And yes: it is bloody October! This is what happens in Russia, or Norway or whatever bloody country we're in!" Shouted Robert McGonagall, finally losing his rag with Charlus._

_Alastor couldn't tell, but he imagined Chuck's look to be fairly sheepish given the normally stoic reaction to his occasional bouts of testiness. "Sorry," he said, probably trying to bury his face into his scarf to muffle the sound, "it's just I hate the cold."_

_He rolled his eyes, "You amaze me." Then smiled, as he felt a barrage of snow hit him across the back where Charlus had kicked a chunk. Fact was, he rather liked the snow._

" _It's just-" he stumbled again, and swore, then regained his footing with voice even more pained, "What are we doing here?"_

_Peter Carrington bellowed for the whole mountainside to hear, "You know why, old boy! Death or glory! That's why we're here! Our bout for eternal fame, to go down in history!" It shouldn't have taken anyone by surprise if the whole mountain erupted in an avalanche, such was the volume of Carrington's voice._

_Charlus, if anything, sounded even more annoyed. "Not 'here' here. Not 'Durmstrang' here. As in 'outside' here. As in the snow, in October! When we could be inside, in the Castle. Warm by the fire. Doing anything that isn't wandering aimlessly in the snow."_

" _So you can make goo-goo eyes at Alf's cousin, you mean." Alastor teased, idly tossing a snowball he'd made at Alphard's back._

" _By no means," Chuck said, probably blushing. "Besides it's Bobby who's got the crush on Dorea."_

_Robert McGonagall, who was certainly blushing, protested, "No I don't!"_

_Alphard duly intervened, "If you have any untoward intentions for my cousin, Bob," he warned, "I'll never do your Divination homework again." Then with even more venom, "As for you, Potter, make any eyes at all at my cousin, and I shall leave you here in the snow to rot."_

" _Perhaps, old chap," Carrington announced, duly agreeing a change of subject was for the best, "if you told the rest of us where we're going, tempers might run a bit cooler, eh, old bean?"_

_Scathingly, Chuck said, "Are you trying to be funny?"_

_But Alphard ignored him. "We're here to test the competition. I was talking with some of these Durmstrang chappies – or as best I could with some of them–("Bloody foreigners" Peter chimed,) and it seems they've got a couple good duellists. And they've asked for a couple of friendly, civilised matches."_

_Sounding perhaps just slightly less enraged than Charlus was, Bobby exploded, "So we're all the way out here, in the blessed, bloody cold, for you to fight a duel with the competition?!"_

" _Of course, Bob," Alphard said, as though he was simpleminded, "Alastor's going to fight them."_

" _I am?"_

" _Yep."_

" _And when did I agree to this?_

" _Just now. It should be just over this next hill."_

_Sure enough, they had just mounted the upcoming crest than they spied the gaggle of Durmstrang students, between 10 or 20, enraptured with one another. They had clear some of thicker snow away and marked a line with a fallen tree they'd sunken further into the snow, which probably marked the dividing line between the two duellists._

" _So," Alphard was explaining, as they approached the Durmstrang, "I thought I'd start off you know take a few on, then when one of them beats me, you can come in and show them what for, right?" He then spoiled his plan by adding, "Make a good show of it mind? Gimme chance to get some good bets in."_

" _Bets!?" Shrieked Charlus, which drew the stares of the opposition, before amending more quietly, "You brought us out here to make bets?!"_

" _Yeah," Alphard shrugged, then seeing the protests on all their faces, "Oh come on! You've seen the way they swan around the place, looking down at us? You saying that you don't want see them lose a few galleons?"_

_Charlus and Carrington seemed to change their minds, but Alastor disdainfully grunted, "Money. It's always money with you Slytherins."_

" _Oh come on, Al." But seeing his resolute expression added. "I'll give you 40%."_

_He raised an eyebrow. "50/50, and your half you have to split with Chuck, Bob and Peter. Or not at all."_

_Alphard grinned his accord, and Carrington gave him an approving slap on the back. "That's right, old man. You know Alphard's never led us wrong before." Not that any of them particularly needed the money._

_The two schools stood mostly apart for the first match, which Alastor soon regretted as the lack of movement seemed to make Charlus even more cold, irritable and stupid. It didn't take him long to reach his own limit with Chuck._

" _Shall we light a fire?" He asked, raising his wand to cast some disastrous spell._

" _Oh that's all I need before a duel: you to set our frigging eyebrows on fire!"_

_He then left the other three to their quarrelling, and walked in a circle round the make shift arena. Alphard cut himself a fair shape in a duel, but the current competition was a bit sluggish. Eventually, Alastor approached his target. Like the Hogwarts bunch, the Durmstrang remained all bunched together. All except one: he was fiercely tall, blond and blue eyed and a relaxed expression on his brow. No one would have thought to glance twice at him, had he not been well off to the side. As Alastor approached him, he noticed that many of the other Durmstrang students casting distasteful glances first at the blond boy alone, and then Alastor for seemingly having noticed him, which only enhanced his curiosity._

" _Umm? Hello?"_

_He hadn't noticed Alastor initially, or pretended not to, until he made it impossible not to. Even then it was like an irritation that he acknowledge him. He'd been so engrossed in matching the duel._

" _Hello," Alastor repeated, "Umm… Speak English?" He just raised an eyebrow at him, and Alastor increasingly felt like a fool and felt himself cringe as he took on an accent to repeat himself, as if that would break the language barrier. "Do you speak ze English?"_

_A quiet laugh was his reply, before he turned to duel again, "Yes, I speak English. And I'm not German."_

" _Sorry," Alastor laughed, still cringing at himself. He stood alongside him and they watched the duellist do their best to outdo each other. "I'm Alastor, by the way. And Scottish."_

_Alastor offered his hand. The Not German looked at a moment, curious at the absence of gloves in the current weather, before shaking it with his own. "Good to meet you, Alastor. I am Miklós Bethlen. And Hungarian."_

" _Good to meet you, Miklós."_

_They stood together quietly, watching the duel. Alphard turned away the current favourite from Durmstrang happy with himself after the effort, the Alastor felt Miklós growing suddenly anxious._

" _Please, you name again?"_

" _Alastor," he replied, his own eyebrow up, "Alastor Moody."_

" _Ah, yes. This name I have heard before. You were duelling champion in a contest for young wizards some years ago, yes?"_

" _So I was."_

" _Mmm, indeed. Now I recall, yes. I saw you there, my mother was great follower of the duelling circuit. I remember you were very impressive for a younger wizard."_

_He smiled, bouncing on his tiptoes, "Thank you. I'm afraid I don't remember you…"_

_Miklós waved a dismissive gloved hand. "Ah, why should you."_

_His curiosity peaked, Alastor just came out with the question gnawing at him. "Why is it you're here? And why do those buggers keep staring at you like you're something that needs scrapping off their boots."_

_Cruelly, he sniggered, "Because they think me scum." He turned to Alastor as if to confront him with some terrible truth. "They think me, how you English say: Mudblood?"_

" _I'm not English." Alastor he replied, annoyed then looked over at the other Durmstrang students. "Is that it?"_

" _What other reason should they need?"_

_Angry, he blurted out, "A bloody better one than that! Who should give a damn about whether your Muggle-born?"_

_Suddenly, Miklós' face turned kind. "Thank you. Not all here are so accepting as you, Scotsman. And I'm not. Not really. My mother and father were both, but that is not enough for the people here."_

" _Why?"_

_Miklós spoke as though Alastor were simply naïve. "Do not think because your Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald, he has grown any less popular. That all those who shared his views vanished into the walls like ghosts. Here they are, and here they shall remain, I fear."_

_Alastor suddenly felt sorry for him, "Forgive me. Even back home, not everyone is as unprejudiced." He nodded at the duellists, "Apart from Alphard, his whole family are closeted blood purists." Unable to stop asking questions, Alastor pressed on. "Why are you still here then? If they all look down on you."_

_A wolfish grin appeared. "Because I am the best. I take everything they throw at me. Being here is an act of defiance to them, like I am shouting out louder than the rest of them by the sheer fact of existing. More than that. The fact I stay is the one action I have left, and my actions show the flaw in their thought. In disobeying their orders, they do not exist: their expectation cannot take hold. The great resistance to their bigotry."_

" _Remarkable…"_

* * *

"And he was remarkable," Charlus recalled, sipping his drink, lost to the memories of their school days. "Certainly gave you a run for your money when it came to the duelling, Alastor."

"Yes," he replied dreamily, equally fixated on lost days, "when we returned to Hogwarts, I was sure we'd never see Miklós Bethlen again." He drank his last, sighed and said, "I was wrong."

Now Charlus sits up, just as intrigued as Bones was. "What?"

"It's difficult, Chuck. It was when I left…"

Nothing else needs to be said. When you ran away, is the unwritten words on Charlus's face, but that is long past and forgiven, yet the scars are still visible, they still stings. "I was on my own by then. The friend I gone to travel with… we'd parted ways, I wound up in Bucharest of all places was hanging around their when I bumped back into Miklós. He'd changed a lot by then, the years hadn't been good. Both of us were broke, so we made a sort of team, hunting down things across borders the Aurors couldn't or wouldn't go after. Some of it was good, some of it was downright stupid: hunting werewolves for bounty, raiding vampire hides, breaking up giant colonies, whatever paid. We were in Berlin, one summer and the whole place just went _bang_!"

* * *

June, 1953 – Berlin, Germany

_Another explosion rocked the building._

" _They're insane, bloody Muggles." Alastor breathed, as dust shook loose from the ceiling again. He was braced against a wall that was half shattered, and perhaps if he let go, it and the whole building would cave in on his head. Which would have only improved his situation. His eyes searched the room, till they again landed back on Miklós. "How the hell did it come to this?"_

_Miklós had himself propped up against a table that had been upturned when everyone else had ran from the room. He must have hit his head as well, a trickle of blood running down the side of his face, but he's nursed his pain himself – broken bottle in hand – but breathing shakily. It's not like Miklós to go to pieces the way he seems to be going, but then he'd thought the same about himself and can feel the fear might rise up and have strangled him at any moment._

" _One catastrophe after another, Alastor. A slow slide into vagrancy on both our parts." Said the Hungarian, a hand wiping the trail of red from off his face. Another explosion rocked the building, and they could hear piece of the structure giving way from the force of the blast. Miklós sighed, and his voice shook as though he might be crying, "Have we lost the world to them, you think? The muggles."_

_Alastor folded himself up against the wall, slid down it and pulled his knees his chest, like a child. He drew in a breath, before he spoke to make sure his voice wouldn't give out. "I think the world as you think of it, will always go on – so long as someone is fool enough to imagine it."_

_There is humour in his comrades voice as the reply is given. "There is Alastor Moody. All cynical and sceptical, yet the bleeding heart shines through." Miklós throws the bottle away from himself and it shatters. Alastor holds in his breath – he thinks he could kill him for that, for any chance that they might give themselves away to Death, who could sweep down and come blasting through the walls at any minute. "You can never know what it is like to hope, Alastor. You've always been disgusted at any attempt to achieve the impossible. Even your own dreams and desires you never placed much faith in, do not start now. It must be part of being, Scotch – and you are that to the core."_

_His hand are on either side of his head, pulling on his hair. The feeling of the pain, of any distraction can help you put your fear to one side. He sighed, "I am at that."_

_Another explosion. This one hit the building, the roof bursts open, debris: bricks, stone and wood are scattered through the room. They're exposed to a stream of moonlight, and the infernal noise of the muggle conflict outside came barrelling in after it. Miklós screamed, tumbled over, and kept screaming. It was agony in his terror, but rage and panic. Alastor couldn't understand the words he said, he'd slipped back into Hungarian, all he knew was that terrified him more than anything else that night._

* * *

Alastor was chugging straight from the bottle now, his glass discarded. Charlus and Bones sat there watching, but not protesting the actions. He set the bottle down, sighed, and rubbed his tired face with both hands.

Bones ventured a cautious, "Then what happened?"

Sighing, he says, "I don't remember really, it gets a bit foggy. He ran out the building, I tried to follow but I lost him in the confusion. After that I did what any sane person would do and got the hell out of there. I went further east. I didn't expect to see Miklós again, so I wasn't about to go back to the old work again. I'd just sent an owl applying for the job at Durmstrang when he came out of the blue at me."

"Alastor…" Charlus reaches out, his concern a portrait of his own face, "maybe we should stop for now."

"No." He says sharply, raising a warning hand. It then closes around the bottle again, and fills his glass again. "No. I- I'm fine." He drains the glass, and puts the stopper back in the bottle, cutting himself off from his own prop. "It was a few weeks later. I'd circled back round to Berlin to collect some things that I'd left behind in a place we stashed money, clothes, valuables. The muggles had stopped shooting at each other by then, and I assumed that if Miklós was still alive then he'd have already taken his things and gotten out of there. Otherwise, I expected he'd be dead – never did I imagine to actually bump into him."

* * *

" _Hello, Alastor."_

_Alastor dropped his briefcase, and his mouth fell open. The noise of case clattering to the floor is enough to scare the local wildlife that call the lake their home, and a flock of gulls panic and on mass take flight away from the scene. Miklós stands a few yards away from him, cautiously trying to test the waters of how welcome he was._

_Startled still, he took a step back. "Miklós…"_

_He was haggard, looked as though he hadn't slept for days, even longer. And Alastor could have sworn that he had worn those same clothes the night they were in Berlin. Neither had he seemed to have had a chance to shave, and Alastor realised suddenly that Miklós certainly didn't suit a beard._

" _You survived then, Alastor?" He asked him, a ghostly smile crossing his face like a scar._

_Gruffly he replied, "Of course I survived. You know me. It was you I wasn't so sure about." The smile drops, and he looks sad, almost disappointed in himself. Prompting, he asked, "What happened to you?"_

" _I…" He turned away, looking out across the lake, as if he'd couldn't bare to face him and explain at the same time. "I did what I had to in order I survive. Surely you understand, Alastor?"_

" _Understand what?"_

" _Because I know now, he explained it to me. It's a question of survival, you see? Between us and them."_

_He stepped forward, trying to reach out to his friend, he even stretched out a hand to him. "Miklós," he said, "what are you talking about? Are you alright? What happened to you?"_

" _I'm not afraid to say, I went a little mad back in Berlin, Alastor. After I ran out the building I did-" he choked on his words, as if he was about to start weeping. "I did terrible things. I knew I was going to die, you see. And I was prepared to do anything to make it so, and he saved me. At first I thought it was you, but you didn't have that kind of magic in you. Not to protect me. I remember I called out for you – he just laughed. He does know you after all."_

_Still, Miklós did not turn toward him. Which was good, because Alastor already had a hand on his wand. "Who is it, how did they get you out of there, Miklós?"_

_But he paid him no heed, for he was lost in his own narrative. "After he apparated me away, after the Muggles were all dead, he showed me the toll of the damage they had done. The dead, how they did it. It shocked me but I know now it shouldn't have, they had killed my parents after all. And that, Alastor, is we've got to do what we need to for our survival, for their own good."_

_Resolute, he marched forward, leaving the briefcase behind, feet crunching on the lakeside pebbles. "Miklós, listen to me: you're sick, you're ill, for Merlin's sake. Come with me." He fully stretched out his arm now, waiting for Miklós to turn and grasp it, but he didn't._

" _No, Alastor. My Lord wants to speak with you. I promised him that you would come and speak with him, that I could convince you. He said it has been too long since you had seen each other. "_

" _I'm going nowhere, Miklós. I've applied for a job at Durmstrang. It pays good, and it'll mean no more of the hard work. Come with me, they'd be lucky to have you on staff."_

_Finally, Miklós turned to him, his face featureless and unreadable, barren as any desert. Alastor tightened his grip on his wand as he heard him speak, "Again, Alastor, no. You must come to meet My Lord. He does not expect you to call him so, he knows you knew him better as Tom Riddle."_

_Alastor's arm flew up, wand outstretched, pointed at Miklós. "Tom Riddle is dead. If not in fact then at least to me. And if you've fallen in with him, then you betray everything within yourself, Miklós. For Merlin's sake, see reason!"_

" _I have," he said, revealing his own wand. They each backed away from each other slowly, "And you will come and speak with my master."_

" _You'd have to kill me before I meet him again."_

_Miklós actually laughed, "Then I will do what I must… Incarcerous!"_

_Thick ropes spurted from the end of Miklós' wand, but Alastor held his ground shouting, "Incendio!" and the ropes caught fire and burned away before they could land on him._

" _You can't beat me. Stand down before I do some serious damage."_

_But for Miklós they had long passed talking. His wand flashed, and a flurry of hexes and curses followed each one. Alastor dodged and backed away further, a shield charm guarding his line of retreat which was strong enough that most of the spells either bounced off, or were absorbed. Finally, he bellowed, "Expulso!" And the shield shattered in an explosion, but Alastor kept his footing._

_He quickly stepped forward with his own barrage of spells. Determined to end this quickly, he did not hold back or test the waters as Miklós had done. He fell straight into form, and held nothing back. "Bombarda! Confringo! Reducto!"_

_Miklós tried to dodge and back off, but the force of the blasts from Alastor's curses kept him too far off balance. In the end he stumbled, crashing to his knees, and tried to bring up a shield but one of Alastor's spells shattered it. He tried raising it again, but a quick "Relashio!" from Alastor and he dropped his wand as though it were a hot iron._

" _Accio!" and the wand flew into Alastor's left hand, where he flung it into the lake. He came down on Miklós, menacingly. "I'm sorry for whatever happened to you in Berlin. Or Whatever you did, but try and come after me, you or Riddle then I will kill you."_

" _You're dead, already, Moody."_

_He tried lunging at him, but with wand still raised Alastor merely had to mutter "Immobulus." And Miklós froze to the spot. Alastor retrieved his baggage and apparated away, the last time he would expect to see Miklós Bethlen ever again._

* * *

"And…" Edgar Bones was saying, bring him back out of his recollection, "that was the last you ever saw of him?"

He nodded, sadly. "A mutual friend wrote not long after I arrived back in England that he'd gotten a job for some eastern Ministry, was working on trying to regulate the threat of the Giant menace in southern Poland. We'd tried much of the same in our freelance period." He looked away from the table, wistfully.

"And now he turns up here, for the Committee which is probably just a cover for the Knights of Walpurgis, known blood purists attacking muggles and squibs in Germany," Charlus says, an eyebrow raise and careful smile as his took a final sip from his glass, "Coincidence?"

"I should doubt it," grunts Bones, Alastor nodding his own agreement.

"But what I don't understand yet," he continued, "Is who our friendly mister 'Jock' is? Certainly no Scot in the Committee, Alastor. You don't think…"

"No. I'd have recognised Tom Riddle when I see him. He was no Scotsman, by Merlin."

"So… now what?" Bones wondered out loud, flicking a splinter from the wood away from him and across the floor of the Leaky Cauldron.

Alastor eased himself up from his chair, picking up his coat behind him. He wrapped it sure about himself, before speaking, as the other two continued to stare expectantly, "I'm going to have another chat with Mrs Shafiq. Somehow she has got to tie this all together."


	8. The Last Confession of Mrs Shafiq

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: Alastor returns to the Shafiq House for his final meeting with Hector's wife to try and make sense of the method in her madness.

**The Last Confession of Mrs Shafiq**

_Sunday, 7:01 PM – The Shafiq Household, Hull_

The weather had not improved from his last visit, a torrential downpour that continued to plague the town. All that had changed now, was that it had truly gotten on Alastor's last nerve. He could feel like a kettle with a blocked spout, just a constant building up of steam that was trapped within him, and he could tell he was already threatening to explode – the back of his neck hot the touch, blood in his ears, and bark barely contained at the back of every spoken word.

His knuckles brayed into the door as he knocked it, fervently and without repent. There was no sloth on the part of Mrs Shafiq to open it this time, it flew open almost immediately, no chain to hold in back. Alastor found her face immediately for the first covered in emotion: at first she had sheer panic, as though she had been warned of an accident, but could nevertheless do nothing but watch as it happened; then she saw him, and the panic turned to horror – He was pleased to see he had at least caught her off guard. Finally her face began to its normal, emotionless stare, with a slow lizard blink, but not before she added a flash of anger as she confronted him for the first time.

"You should sent an owl," her voice curt, like a piece of string and been pulled taught, adding strain to its fibres. "You should have sent warning you were coming."

He all but walked over her, shouldering the door fully open to let him complete entry to the house. His voice was controlled, but no less absent of his contempt. "I'd have thought you'd taken all you could of unexpected owls, Mrs Shafiq."

Her voice zoned out in to the ether. "Why have you come back?"

Ignoring her, he moved further into the house. He surveyed the hallway, where not so long ago, the body of her husband, Hector Shafiq would have been strewn, poisoned, an vial of it wedge beneath him, and a letter written by his own quick-quotes-quill, signed – a steaming cup of tea in the other room, abandoned. Aastor continued on to the sitting room. It was considerably tidier than his last visitors, yet even more than that, things were actively missing. Photographs had been taken down from the walls, leaving only a scattering of nails around the walls empty and bare. The mantelpiece was also bare of the battery of photos that had covered it. She's feeling the guilt, he thought, admittedly feeling a pang of sympathy that seemed ease out much of his anger. She's trying wipe the slate clean, rid herself of any reminder of the man she helped kill. All that remains is for him to have her confession.

He sat down on the arm of the sofa, and bid her sit on the enormous chair she had claimed during their first conversation. She did so, but only under the continuance of further protest. "It is very late, Mister Moody."

Sighing through his nose, he turned to face her, elbows on his knees and hands together. He spoke softly, deciding at the last to resurrect the soft touch he had deployed at their first meeting. "I know you must have been very lonely, Mrs Shafiq."

Abrasive, on edge, he quickly replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."

He continued. "It's very difficult to be on your own, and still be so brave. They never seem to grasp that much – the one's the whip hand, the masters. Wrapped up in their ideology and grand idea. They always have that to draw on, to comfort them. That's why they can't understand the isolation you feel."

She sat starring at him, her face still monotone. He sucked his breath in, and leaned further forward. "I am sorry for calling in so late. How have you been sleeping?"

"Badly." Her face turns away from him, and she returns her gaze to the middle distance. On this he can believe her. The bags under her eyes are worse, grown bigger and all the more purple.

"I'm sorry." Then he dangled the carrot in front of her. "Perhaps I can make tea, in a little while. But first I want to know something: where and when did you first meet Miklós Bethlen?" Her eyes darted back toward him, and caught the look straight away. The realization dawns on her that he knows, or at least suspects, or that he might have everything in his coat pocket. And now there is just herself alone. No more protection, the lies have ran out more or less. All that she can do is play for time, and hope for the best. It's a shame that he knows better.

"I would also like to know your association with a man called 'Jock', if you do know who I'm talking about. He'll be competent to be sure – like any other trained killer – though he didn't manage to kill me. But he has managed to murder the man he purchased his wands from."

Surprised, she interrupted him, almost aghast, "You were attacked?"

But he just ignored her. Rolled over the interruption for what she needed to hear. "He might yet kill you, Mrs Shafiq. Which shouldn't come as such a surprise, after all he did murder your husband. Why shouldn't he off you as well? That would keep everything nice and tidy for him. No other loose ends."

Her eyes darkened, her fear becoming replaced by the anger she feels at having the truth written down so plainly before her. "Mister Moody, I never thought you to be so cruel."

"And what about anyone else? I'm sure there are muggles that might have seen you meet in the cinema, what about the people who worked with you husband, Mrs Shafiq? I'm sure that you both had friends for tea, why not have them killed?"

She rose immediately. For a moment it was as if she planned to strike him. There's a bolt magic, and the windows and decorative china all cracks. She almost jumps passed him, and braced herself against the mantel, her eyes pointed down as if not to look at herself in the mirror. Mrs Shafiq spat the condemnation of his theory, "That is insane."

He pushed off the sofa, arrived at her side and lent in close her face, menacingly announcing, "And so is Miklós. The man who tried to kill me too. I saw that much in his face. I've looked into both of their eyes and I've seen the mania that has taken hold in them. Murder is what they do. Killing is what 'Jock' was made for, and you must have known that much. You've seen those eyes before. Did you know Bethlen was at Durmstrang?"

At soft a weak, "No", escaped her lips, as if she couldn't believe the betrayal, tears falling down her nose and onto the carpet.

He doesn't relent. "Did you really think that you could give these murderers only part of yourself? They take all. Heart, spirit and soul. What was the dream that you had for you and your husband?"

She struggled to breath, the weight of her conscience dragging her down at last. Shaky, uneven, terrified whimpers were coughed out in between breathes, as she said, "I only had one dream: my golden hair. When the muggles took me away, they shaved it off, and once it grew back all was grey."

He banged a fist on the wall that sent a jolt through her, "Miklós Bethlen. When and where did you meet?"

She sighed, and sucked the grief and tears back into herself with a single breath, "Three years ago. My husband and I travelled to Germany so he could attend a conference."

He leaned back, drew away from her – His soft touch reasserting itself: "And Jock?"

A dying flight of defiance surfaced in her. "I've never heard of him."

Alastor just shook his head at Mrs Shafiq, "You know who I mean. Scottish, like me; pale eyes; and closer to your age than mine. He'll have refused to give his name, maybe asked you to provide him one."

With his description, she confessed, "Oskar…"

Alastor shrugged, "I've heard him as Jock. As for the moment I don't know his real name. When and where did you meet him?"

Mrs Shafiq crossed the room, and sat on the sofa, her head in her own hands. He just stood there, planting an elbow on the mantel to prop himself up comfortably. "Here, in this house," she said, "for a while, the dream was my husbands. He wanted a new world, where wizards and witches did not have cower in this," she gestured around the room, "squalor." She added with extra venom. "And Hector Shafiq would to build it. That was what drew Miklós Bethlen to him, at the conference. All I said to him, was that 'can you not see who these people are? It's Grindelwald come back to claim the world again.' But he could not see. And then one day he did, when Oskar came to call, yet I had seen that muggles were no different either. Still, all they do is destroy: us, each other, the cost does not matter to them. They will devour the earth and all that goes with it if they can, Mister Moody. So, Oskar and I cursed him: reduced him to a child, and led him like one."

"The imperious curse," Alastor whispered to himself.

"But it did not last. Now I know, it could not have. It began to break, Oskar saw it, he knew that my Hector was no longer reliable."

Alastor dipped his head, "So when Jock saw your husband and I in the park, he killed him."

Her voice was as sad as his own, "Yes, Oskar – Jock – killed him."

With the confession in place, all he has to do now is tie the strings together. "The letter, and the quill?"

"I used it, but Oskar was able to forge the signature. He had it ready and waiting, and I could see no other choice – I was too afraid, and too far in to change course now."

"With Hector's body already lying in the hall – you must have had to step over his body to write the note." It's a cruel detail to bring up, but it's the only means he has available to shift some of his anger out of himself.

Desperate, she called out, "Can I have some tea now?"

But he slapped her down, firmly, "No. Not yet, where did the letter tipping off my Office to your husband come from?"

Mrs Shafiq shook her head, "I don't know. Oskar thought that it might have been someone from his Department. Or a friend who grew suspicious of his behaviour under the curse – I don't know."

Alastor knew. By the time Hector Shafiq and he had their conversation, he was no longer under the Imperious Curse. He would have known the signs. But Hector kept up the act anyway, and sent the letter himself, as a call, a plea for help. For someone to come and rescue him, only he was a fool and too late to save him. In calling for a second conversation with him, Shafiq definitely signed his own death warrant, but by then he had already been rumbled and Jock, Oskar, whatever in Merlin's name the bastard really called himself had already been onto him.

"Your meetings with Oskar in the muggle cinema, that was how you exchange all the information your husband knew and the papers that he stole from his office. But on the night Hector was murdered, he did not meet you there, was that because he was here?"

"Yes."

"So you did not exchange papers, and you left early."

"I panicked!" She cried, but he is one set ahead of her.

"No you didn't. That was the plan in case of emergency: if someone does arrive at the appointed meeting, leave your package behind and return to a normal routine. I'll wager you always brought a bag, or a case of some kind with you, to disguise the papers in. Nothing bewitched of course – wouldn't want charmed objects falling into dirty muggle hands – and I bet that after you and Jock had covered up the murder, he went back to the cinema to retrieve it. Which was probably the last time you ever saw each other."

Her confirmation was forlorn way that she looked to the floor.

He nodded, and pushed away from the mantel. "I expect Miklós will have given you place to send an owl in case of emergency, you will give it to me."

Feebly, she protested, "No…"

He rushed across the room, grabbed her hands that were held stretched out in front of her and squeezed them. His voice was pained, disbelieving. "Are you mad? Really, would you try to protect these killers? Jock, the jovial murderer, who forced poison down you husbands throat, had him cursed and forced you both to live a lie. And Miklós Bethlen, who left the best of himself behind in a cellar in Berlin? They'll kill you, Mrs Shafiq. At least one of them will try to kill me again. The address, write it – now!" He rose sharply, straightening the folds in his coat, "And I'll make us the tea."

The tea was not as strong as he would have liked, Alastor thought, as he poured out first Mrs Shafiq's cup and then his own. But then again, he would have preferred anything that was stronger than tea at that moment. She was grateful for the drink, and drank deeply from the cup as soon as he filled it. Holding her breath for a moment as the liquid poured down her throat, she spoke to him, her voice almost admiring, "My husband did like, Mister Moody."

Alastor played with the teaspoon he left in his cup, pretending to stir it. "I'm glad. I rather liked him too."

She gave a small smile at the memory of her excitable husband. "He called you a 'clever, little chap'. It wasn't often that he called people clever. I suppose it was then I understood the spell was fading fast."

"Little?" Alstor protested, and they each gave a small laugh. Mrs Shafiq brought a hand to her mouth to cover it, as tears appeared at the corner of her eyes again.

"Bethlen also said that you were clever. He called you the best wizard he had ever known."

He paused, with the cup to his lips, and said over the rim of his cup, "Miklós said that?"

She nodded, "To Oskar. He told me. Miklós told him that once he thought you never cared for sides, or principles, or ideas. That you were almost naïve, and that a cause wasn't necessary for you, only a quarrel or a battle could sustain you. When the truth is you are the most moral man he has known, and the best."

Alastor set the cup down. "I used to think the same of him, but then I saw him change. I never cared for ideas, just the difference between what is kind and what is evil." He rose, fastening the buttons on his coat, "I shall leave you know, Mrs Shafiq. Goodbye."

* * *

Edgar Bones obliged him by offering a bottle of that stronger stuff that Alastor had been wanting. They had abandoned the Leaky Cauldron, they had used it once too often as a meeting place. Instead they were at Alastor's home, now that there were no assassins lurking behind every door, propped up at his kitchen table with curtains still drawn. After meeting outside Gringotts they'd crossed, and just flooed straight in from the Leaky Cauldron at its peak hour, so no one had the chance properly see or hear where they had gone to, or follow. It also meant that any one that the Fawcetts had watching his house from the outside were all the more clueless as to where he was, and kept him further off grid after his stay at St Mungo's.

"Well, what's the story?" Bones asked.

Alastor flicked at his glass, watching the ripples form in his drink. "There was a new world to be made, and Hector Shafiq wanted to be a loyal solider. Only his generals didn't exactly have the same one: his wife put him under the Imperius Curse."

Edgar dropped his jaw, "Merlin's beard."

"Yep, out of vengeance for the dreams of her youth. Just like Miklós. Sorry I kept you out in the cold for so long, by the way."

A dismissive wave of the hand. "Don't worry, I knew you'd take your time with it. So I popped back into the Department for somethings, going through Hector Shafiq's work stuff. I found a note with, would you believe it, the Committee for the Regulation of trade in the Dark Arts' address and: Miklós Bethlen. Sloppy work for an Impriused informant."

He sighed, hand wearily rubbing his eyes, "The curse had been fading for a few weeks. My guess is that the tip off was written by Hector, himself, as it started cracking. And left a few hints around for people to find. Where's Charlus?" He then asked, suddenly aware of the absent member of their motley crew.

"Mister Potter said there was a change of plan, said he wants us to meet as his place tomorrow morning for breakfast. Wanted me to especially point out that it's at his wife's invitation."

Alastor groaned, "Dear, dear, Dorea." He took the bottle and placed the stopper in it. "You better go get some sleep," He told Bones, rising from the table. "It'll be a rough morning, I assure you."


	9. The Ties that Bind Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: While attending breakfast at Charlus' house, Alastor receives a much friendlier ambush from familiar faces.

**The Ties that Bind Us**

_Monday Morning_

November snows had come to England. The ground was light with it, but still enough to bring muggle traffic to an almost standstill. Even in the relatively small, Yorkshire hamlet where Charlus Potter and Dorea Black had made their home of some five years now, the town seemed sparsely populated as the cold had driven everyone in doors. Yet, knowing Chuck and his wife, this did not mean that their invitation to breakfast was anymore null and void. So, prompt as a swiss time piece, Alastor was crunching through the snow in single file with Edgar Bones, at 8 o'clock in the morning, pushing their way against the grain of a calm, yet thick snowfall.

Taking his advice, Bones was in a suit that was not half as shabby as those he'd worn before. Alastor was likewise in a pinstriped brown suit, with red tie with a Gryffindor lion pin on his lapel, though he still wore his favourite, gnarled brown raincoat. While Edgar was wrapped up in extra layers, Alastor stayed only with the coat: he liked snow, and the cold. Marching easily through the flurry setting a brisk pace, with hands in his pockets. Some small part of him was looking forward to visit the Potter home, it had been far too long since his last one, but part of him was still apprehensive. Dorea had summoned him during the middle of a case, which was rare in itself, and more to the point she had sent the invite by proxy of Charlus, the Edgar Bones. He was sure she had something in for him, which didn't especially surprise him given the events of recent days.

"Alright back there, Edgar?" He called sparingly over his shoulder.

There was a grunt, and Bones replied, "Fine, Mr Moody."

"Nearly there. Just round this corner." He assured him, and the crossed a road into a small cul-de-sac. A few muggles had gathered around one of their cars, and were trying to get it going out of the small pothole it had gone through in the snow. One was fiddling with its engine, who noticed them both walking passed a offered a polite hello, while two more were looking tired, exacerbated and clearly not dressed properly for the climate. There's was a much more muted hello, and both Edgar and he beckoned them a pleasant good morning, as Alastor opened the gate to the Potter's house.

He fairly sharply wrapped his knuckle on the door, detecting Bones' eagerness to be out of the snow and somewhere warm. It didn't take long for the door to suddenly fly open. Alastor stood there grinning as the threshold revealed itself, and stretched out his arms for a hug, with a hearty, "Dorea."

She did not look impressed, and summarily slapped him, with a curt, "Alastor," which was afterwards followed by an arduous, "You stupid, pig-headed, Scottish twerp."

Unphased, and still grinning, he turned his face back to her, hand on his cheek, "Good morning, Dee."

His greeting only seemed to irritate her further, "Don't call me Dee!" Her face screwed up as she grew more irate, "Damn bloody fool. Gallivanting off on your own like that, getting yourself put in Saint Mungo's, and Merlin knows whatever else Charlus hasn't told me."

Alastor softened his smile, "I'm fine, pet." And opened his arms for her again.

After a moments consideration, she promptly hugged him though it was as if she did it under duress. This was the flaw for which everyone loved Dorea Black for, that she was frightful angry, always, to see those close to her in peril and situations in which she could do nothing to help. Alastor always had known this, and understood it as to why she and him had to endure one another like the same side of a manic depressive, damned isolated and independent as he was.

They released one another, and she then beckoned him inside, offering a bewildered Edgar a much more formal good morning. No sooner were they inside than Dorea began reliving Edgar of his travelling cloak and Alastor's raincoat, which she took extra pleasure in admonishing.

"Really, Alastor. Still swaggering around in this old thing? It's ghastly."

"Come now, Dorea," he said, straightening his tie, and unbuttoning his suit jacket to show off his fine waistcoat, "Besides the coat, I've gone and dolled myself up for this morning."

Suddenly, she seemed more impressed with his fashion sense, laying a hand on his shoulder to brush something non-existent that wasn't there off it. "Very good, better effort than usual." She then saw his lapel badge, and rolled her eyes, "You never really did leave school, did you, Al?"

He laughed, motioning Edgar to follow them both through to the dinning room, "Don't act as if Charlus is any different. Or Alphard, he's just like God made him."

Stopping to hand the cloaks to the house-elf that was patiently by the dining room door, Dorea clucked her teeth and said, "You shouldn't take his Lordship's name in vain."

Sure enough, beyond the door, Dorea's cousin, Alphard Black, was sat at her kitchen table in easy conversation with Charlus Potter, who was languidly resting on the window sill, back against the glass. Catching Alastor from the corner of his eye, Alphard's smile turned into a wicked grin. His moustache seemed to bristle and stand on end, his lips parting to blew smoke out his mouth from the tiny cigar that was wedged in the corner of his mouth. Alphard pretended not to notice him as he sat, and gestured a position for Edgar to sit at, who seemed noticeably apprehensive at the arrival of the situation.

"Well of course I told him 'go to hell', Chuck. So the oily twerp starts getting even more uppity, as good as asking for a hiding." Alphard Black was rarely not the most expensively dressed man in any given room. His suits were tailor made by silk from Acromantula webs, shoes from dragon hide leather, and had a number of silver and gold rings dotted across his fingers, each with their own unique jewel encrusted in them. Being a member of the Black family, Alphard was richer than Midas, which also meant he had no need of a profession, nevertheless he was still a member of the Auror Department, and a Hit Wizard at that, but he saw it as more of a hobby and was always threatening his resignation whenever something within the department wasn't to his liking, which was often, though these spells rarely lasted, and on the occasion his resignation was accepted, the Department took him back on account of his family connections once he had grown bored again. When he wasn't bored of the Life, he was usually in Borneo talking to spiders, or disrupting the life of his favourite cousin, Dorea.

Charlus, owing Alastor some acknowledgment, turned away from Alphard, "Moring, old boy. All well with Dee?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but Alphard beats him to it with a dark chuckle. "Of course, our man, Al Moody: could charm a basilisk out of its skin." He makes a grand gesture of plucking his tiny cigar away from his mouth as he turns to speak to him, blowing a vast stream of blueish smoke from his mouth and nose that envelopes his whole face. "You've been a naughty boy again, Al."

"Don't call me 'Al', Alfy." He warns, folding his arms. The doorbell goes, and the house-elf scurries back through from the kitchen to answer it, but no body else pays it anymore mind than an inconvenience.

Alphard replaces the cigar back in his mouth, the build up of ash expelled into the ashtray, and continues to take long languid drags on it easing himself into his chair, throwing an arm over the back of it while the other taps a beat on the table. Charlus, sensing the discomfort in the room, lifts off from his position on the window, and moves to a seat beside Alastor while trying to move conversation along. "Hope you don't mind me bringing Alpahrd in, Alastor, just Dorea thought we could use a few extra set of hands.

Still grinning at Alphard, he says, "Of course not. Why's he in England anyway, family reunion?"

In response, Alphard bangs a hand on the table then raise it finger pointed accusingly at Alastor, and his mouth open ready to shout, before the hallway door opens again cutting him off.

"I say!" Boomed a voice that was in no way suited for being in door, "Jolly, bloody cold isn't it? Aren't late, am I? Lord knows, bloody snow is a nightmare." The walls shake with the volume, Alphard is left shocked looking, Charlus nearly vaults out of chair in shock, as does Edgar Bones, while he (who is never surprised) widens his eyes and tries to tilt his head away from the volume. Of course they all know who it is, Peter Carrington is a man you can never forget, nor be unaware of whatever room he's in. Towering over everything at closer to 7 feet tall than 6, and a voice louder than most hurricanes even at speaking level. He's also a caricature of Englishness almost, muggle-born his family go back further than the wizarding Blacks, and his family home is near enough a castle with a few titles from Marquess on down to go with it. Perhaps most annoyingly, he has overactive use of the word 'super' within any and every sentence, and beginning them with as varied announcements of 'By George', 'I say' and the occasional 'Gosh, Jingo!'

"By George!" He shouted again, looking down to recognize Alastor. Carrington rushes into the room, and bends his lanky form down to his level, clapping a hand on his back with a thunderous 'Smack!' that makes him wince again, while bringing a second hand round to shake Alastor's own. "Jolly, bloody super to see you, Old Boy! Been hearing some foul rumours from the wags at the Office, well let's hear it!" Before anyone can get a word in edge ways, he vaults backward bellowing over his own shoulder, "I say, Bob, old bean! Get a shuffle on, bring the pliers, lock the doors, and dim the lights! We've a Spanish Inquisition to render on old Caesar here!

Much more sedate, and looking like he's nursing a fearsome headache from having obviously spent a significant time in Peter's company, Robert McGonagall crosses the threshold still shaking off his coat. He hands it off to the house-elf, who with a snip of her tiny fingers, has the coat zooming to a spare peg by the door, and his apparating back to the kitchen.

Robert's soft, Scottish, tutting remains singularly unimpressed with the entire situation, and curtly dismisses Carrington, "I have no idea what half of what you said means, Peter. Nor what language it was in."

Sidestepping the lanky aristocrat, McGonagall moves to take a seat down from Alastor, acknowledging the rest of the room with simple, "Alastor, good morning. Been too long, Alphard. Charlus, thank you for having me." He seems much more interested in he who has said nary a word all morning however: "And splendid to see you here, too, Mr Bones. Good to know whatever narrative has to be spilled forth is bound to have your brand of common sense to clarify."

Edgar smiles and inclines his head appreciatively in reply, while Robert retrieves a small, wooden pipe from his trouser pocket and joins Alphard in filling the room with the smell of burning tobacco, and blueish smoke.

Somewhat more tranquil from Robert's lack of response, Carrington has given up on his Inquisition for the moment and moves round the table to join Alphard. "By jove, Alfy, old thing, promise me we'll have no more shilly shallying?" He sits pulls his chair in close to Black's and lays a hand on his arm, "The carry-on this has been, whatever it is, surely can't be worth dragging the rest of the family into, but Gosh Jingo, if it be, I mean to have him splayed out across this floor come 11 o'clock."

Sighing, Alphard flicks the remains of his cigar into the ashtray in the middle of the table, then pulls out his chair to face Peter, hand moving to cover the latter's. "Nothing should please me so much, but keep you powder dry for the mo'. This morning is Dorea show."

Charlus chortles, looking around the room at Alastor and Robert, "Very good, Alf. You should set that to music." They quietly laugh, as he continues, " _Nothing could please me so, this is my show, keep you powder dry for the mo',_ " relieving his mouth of the burden of his pipe, Robert pulls it away in one hand to wave it like a conductors baton as he and Charlus stumble their way through more rhymes over their laughter. " _It seems ages ago, since you-I went and throw over-UP!_ "

They both explode for laughter, Peter as well, while Alf rolls his eyes, bemoaning, "Philistines, the lot of you. I expected much more filth for such a song this early in the morning." Catching his eye, Alphard suddenly grins wicked, then peers at Robert mischievously, who's struggling to stop giggling long enough to take another tab off his pipe, before nonchalantly, as though it were an afterthought saying, "Chuck, what was that song from school? You remember about the Scottish chappie and his kilt."

As if he's just heard Eureka for the first time, Charlus spurts, "Good God!" while Carrington's jaw hits the floor, before they're both wracked with laughed ferocious enough that they start shaking the table.

Meanwhile, he and Robert instantly sober up, and shake their heads at the appalling bad taste of it all. Head resting on his knuckle, Bobby turns to him, "How many years? And they still can't let it go."

Carrington starts clapping a beat out while Charlus and Alphard try and work out what the lyrics were. " _Well a Scotsman (clad!) in kilt left a pub (no bar, you twit) one evening fair…_ "

Shrugging, he says with faux disappointment, "Honestly, the English: savages."

"Yes," Robert tuts, "Bad form, truly."

" _And (Christ, what was it?) one could tell by how he walked that he'd (had? Drunk? Drunk, good man, Bones) drunk more than his share…_ "

He shouts over his shoulder at the kitchen door, "For God's sake, Dorea! Get a move on in there, girl! There's gonna be some profuse bad language followed by three dead Englishmen soon!"

They break up their singing as expected, when the door swings open to reveal Dorea wearing her most playful lady-of-the-manor expression, and issuing the command that "There shall be no foul language at my breakfast table, if you please."

An assortment of foods packed onto various platters begin to fly through and arrange themselves gracefully onto the table: French pastries, toast, eggs done three different ways, sausage, bacon, black pudding, mushrooms, tomatoes. Followed by plates and cutlery that set themselves out neatly in front of everyone. Suitably cowed, everyone looks to Dorea to take the lead now that bodies dropping is not precisely prohibited. She turns back into the kitchen just as the tea and coffee pots land with cups and saucers to match, "Thank you, Cato. You may go."

The elf, who had been conducting orchestra of plates, platters and cutlery bowed low to her mistress to the point at which her nose tickled her ankles, before insisting, "Thank _you_ , Mistress." Before vanishing.

"By all means," Dorea said causally, as she took her own chair between Robert and Peter, and they all promptly and eagerly began their meal, spooning generous helping of their choice breakfast onto their plates. Except Alphard who, looking astonished at his cousin, held his hand to his heart like he'd caught a basilisk trying to catch his eye.

"Heaven help me, for a moment I thought _Walburga_ had walked in." he announced, fanning himself with a handkerchief.

Charlus dropped his knife and fork, stretching out his hands and looking up to his Maker, as if for an appeal, "What better way to spoil a meal before it's started!"

Everyone laughed, including Dorea, before turning her reproving gaze to her cousin, asking, "And how would you know what Walburga looks like, nowadays? You won't have seen her for years."

"Yes," he said, drawing the sign of the cross on his chest, "Thank the Lord."

Alastor relaxed into his chair for the first time all morning, and brushed his hair back before pulling his tie a little looser. Truly this morning felt perhaps his most normal in what felt like a hundred years. Charlus poured his tea and added a single cube of sugar. Immediately, he took the saucer and spoon, stirring and looking deeply into his own reflection that looked back out of the brown water at him. This hadn't exactly been the traumatic episode teeth pulling he'd expected to have, almost all of their school crowd (those who could have come, those who would actually have been welcome) had rallied to Dorea's shout, simply because she'd asked, and because they had known or heard rumours that their old pal Alastor needed them.

Attentively, Alastor set his teaspoon aside on the saucer, and plucked the cup with finger and thumb and drank deep. It was good, strong – the way he liked it – and it was good to drink something that was absent of alcohol for a change. The warmth spread down to his gut, where he was glad it pushed aside his guilt and bolstered his relief at not being in the cold on his own anymore.

He ate like a king, pouring sausages onto his plate, cracking open boiled eggs, and dipping deep into the yoke with his toast. For the first time in years, he talked Quidditch with Charlus and Robert, swapped dirty jokes with Alphard and caught up on the latest misdemeanours of the ancient and noble House of Black, and in an unexpected turn of events talked Ministry politics with Peter and Edgar. Carrington, who had a finger in every Department's pie, was always up to date on the gossip – even mentioned with a coy wink that it was he, Alastor, who was the great talk in the secretary's pool and at the Minister's drinks parties, well before the Shafiq business too. They passed the time long enough talking, emptying the tea and coffee pots (not that Alatsor touched the filthy stuff) which refilled themselves once the last drops had been expelled, and by the time the platters were empty he was unbuttoning his waistcoat and belt, reclining well back in his chair and allowing himself a rare suck on one of Carrington's muggle cigarettes, adding to Peter, Robert and Alphard's fumes.

"Well," Charlus said, grandly, "That was fair better than our usual breakfast, my dear," patting his belly to show his wife the appreciation.

By now long used to her husband's baiting, Dorea just rolled her eyes.

Edgar Bones added, "Thank you very much, Mrs Potter."

Much more receptive to his politeness, she smiled and said, "Thank you, Mr Bones. And please," offering her hand over the table, "you must call me Dorea."

Happy with himself, Bones reached out and grasped the outstretched hand offering a bashful, "Ah, Edgar, if you please, ma'am."

She nodded, pulling her hand back, offering the additions of, "And thank you also for looking after Alastor, here. He's very dear to my husband and I."

Silently laughing, pretending to be unaware while looking at the cigarette burning between his fingers, Alastor said, "You're very dear to me," then more sombre, "you all are." And glanced around at each of them.

Robert, striking another match, bluntly grunted, completely nonplussed, "Aye, you too, big fella." Before billowing a vast cloud that obscured his face as he held to the pipe bowl.

Charlus setting his glasses aside to grasp his shoulder, and squeeze reassuringly, while Dorea looked as though she might start weeping. Alphard takes his small cigar away from his lips, and looks like he's contemplating it like a fine wine, smacking his lips, sparing Alastor a quick glance and a wink, followed by his wolfish grin as he replaces the cigar and puts a hand on Carrington's knee, to whom he looks at fondly. Peter is carefully stirring his tea again careful to keep the saucer and cup balanced in one hand to stop his accurately placed cigarette from rolling off into his lap, and at the feel of Alphard's hand has a smile grow, tugging at his lips with a slow lizard's crawl.

Absent minded he notes, "Careful, Alastor. All this open affection is making half the room jealous." Before setting the spoon on the opposite side of his saucer to the cigarette, which he makes an elegant gesture of taking a drag on, before picking up his cup in the same hand to raise a toast. "Druella doesn't know what she's missing, old boy." And finally takes a delicate sip.

At the mention of her name he visibly winces, and can feel the recoil Charlus makes at the sound of it, hear the wrinkle of Dorea's face. But already he can forgive Peter the faux par, given the rare display of English solidarity. And if he's trying to wave off a bad smell, Robert McGonagall bristles, and at last cuts to the point with his usual lack of Scottish refinement.

"Well now that we're all back at each other's bosoms, perhaps we can clue each other in what in Merlin's name has been going on. Cause frankly I may as well cut my eyes out, I'm feeling so blind."

Still meticulously managing his little orchestra of crockery, cutlery and tobacco, Peter jovially agrees, "Indeed, what, what. Some barmy old bugger up and tops himself, then all of a sudden I'm hearing rumours of Alastor kicking in doors on old women, half the Department heads in whole Ministry are screaming their heads off the Aurors have lost their marbles, Fawcett is sharpening an axe to take Chuck and Alastor's heads off while Edgar Bones here is running between everyone like poodle," he pauses to add an apologetic, "no offence old man – and then Alphard's slammed his resignation on the Minister's desk where she files it next to Alastor's, only for Dorea to sound the call to arms. Tricky bloody business, I'm sure. Positively, on tender hooks."

Alphard stubs out his cigar, nodding in agreement, "Myself as well, Pete. Come on. Chuck, Dee, Alastor, Edgar: spill all, and don't spare us the sight of blood."

Alastor wipes his brow with the back of his hand, closes his eyes and rests his face on the same palm at an angel he can easiest take a drag on the cigarette still burning. "I'm too tired of having to repeat this story. Chuck. Bones. If you would?"

Charlus is all too happy to do so, but Edgar Bones is still uncertain. He feels the need to make sure. "Mr Moody, you are definitely sure we should bring them all in? Sir?"

Sighing an excess of smoke, he says, staring bored out of the kitchen window at the falling snow, "I trust everyone here, Edgar."

It's his final word on the matter, which may be for the best, any more contemplation and he might decide to convince himself to change his own mind. While Chuck and Edgar recount events, he allows his mind a wander that its long overdue. Peter has put Druella on his mind. _The_ _bastard_. She always enjoyed the snow too, he recalled, and wasn't just the conventional 'it's pretty' reason that he remembers that other girls used to say about it. No she liked to go to the effort of warming herself up in it, the dawning of extra layers, adding a fine, silk scarf and Kashmir jacket to her repertoire. And in spite of that she was still never afraid to get her hands dirty and get stuck in to a snowball fight.

He knows in spite of his best efforts that she will always be with him. A tiny space inside of him has been cordoned off for the sole memories of her. Still, it doesn't do well to bode on her too much – not that this cigarette is especially distracting him from the fact, and he's doing his best to zone out of Charlus and Edgar – happily married as she presumably is to Cygnus Black, and with a kid now. Some squalling black haired runt that shall forever chain her to Black, for better or worse. In her most callous moments, that was what she wanted, all she'd ever dreamed: marriage into a good, rich family, with plenty of spawn to carry on the good family name. Except that callousness is her family talking: Druella Rosier had always demanded better of herself. It's enough to give him hope about something that isn't going to happen.

Slowly, he starts tuning back into the conversation, just as Peter starts roaring like a bull again. "So, you mean to tell us, old boy, that a bunch of wacko German blood purists have been running some kind of ultra-secret spy cult in the Ministry. Bloody amazing, but what the hell's it all for?" He doesn't seem to impressed by the possibility. Nor does Robert, who sits silently picking his teeth with his pipe, looking as though he's only humouring the idea out of good faith.

Chuck admits he's in the dark on that point. He shrugs his shoulders and says, "No idea. Know your enemy, I suppose. Think about it, all those blood purist freaks didn't just disappear after Grindelwald fell. Especially over here, they won't have given up. Chances are they've got a new leader – these Knights of Walpurgis are a definite threat, just nobody wants to admit it. But not being bloody fools they see how force got Grindelwald nowhere last time, so why not give stealth ago – be patient at first and gather strength."

Alphard seems to be taking the whole thing much more serious. "Now that's a point. If they wanted to take over, that would be the way to do it. And it's not like they'd short on support around here. If some new Grindelwald rose up out of the ground in Diagon Alley, my sister, the Lestranges, Carrows, Rosiers, hell probably even the Malfoys would all rush their wands to him – and probably have him ensconced as Minister for Magic amid a pile of dead Muggle-borns."

Triumphant, Charlus exudes a resolute, "Exactly!"

Still sceptical, Carrington rolls his eyes, "If that's true then why, like you claim, are they hiding in little circles, using the Imperius curse to manipulate middlemen like Hector Shafiq. There are hundreds of purebloods across the Ministry, some great many I shouldn't doubt – absolute rum fellows – might still sympathize with the great Grindel. Why not use them?"

At last, he, Alastor, strides into the conversation with the simple, but damning question. "Who says they aren't?"

All eyes snap to him, and you could her a penny drop. At last in Robert's eyes you can see the dawning as he puts pieces together, he even places his pipe to one side for some real contemplation. Dorea and Alphard look resigned to the fact as well, and look as though they're compiling of regrettable members of their vast extended family who would like nothing better than to see Muggles and Muggle-borns ground underfoot. But unfortunate Carrington just looks as though he's finally snapped.

To finally slap home the fact to him, he lays all out in plain English. "Why do you think we're meeting here like this, Peter? Why do you think I resigned in order to follow this up? 'Cause I can't trust anyone in the Department or even the Auror Office. There's no knowing how far this thing goes until we unravel the whole thing. The Fawcetts, Flint: they're men of straw, no knowing what really goes on behind closed doors with the bastards. We have to get absolute proof before we can expose what we know. They wanted to pull the curtains over Shafiq's death."

Picking his pipe back up, Robert now seems fully engaged. "And how do we do that?"

"We need someone, a witness if you like. Someone who knows how Knights of Walpurgis were working in England."

Bones reasonably suggests, "Mrs Shafiq? She was their main go-between with Hector Shafiq – handed over all his papers to your would-be murderer, Mister Moody."

He shakes his head, "No. The word of a grief-ridden widow isn't going to hold much water with the Ministry. I was thinking more like my murderer himself – Jock, Oskar, what the hell his name is?"

"Ah," says a reluctant Charlus, "There we might have a problem, Alastor."

Already rolling his eyes at the fly in the ointment, he groans, "What now?"

He had taken his glasses off, and started rubbing them clean with the table cloth. "Last night, someone matching Jock's description barged his way into the Portkey Office for an emergency lift out of England."

Bones offers an irritated, "Bollocks."

Covering his own annoyance, Alastor asked, "Any idea where he went?"

And as he shook his head, Bones even more exacerbated said, "Well what good that? I thought they regulated in and out going traffic on the Portkeys."

"They do, but this fella hadn't booked one," Charlus said, thoroughly ashamed from the sound of his voice. "Man barraged in making demands and threats. Hexed someone who tried stopping him. All the staff were terrified."

"And I bet Fawcett's covering it up? Hence no news about in the Prophet." Dorea grandly announced, snapping her fingers that sent a copy of the morning's paper flying out of the kitchen for further inspection.

Resigned to this new turn of fate, Alphard sighed and poured himself more coffee, "Oh well, that's your only lead gone into the ether."

He banged a fist on the table, "Like buggery it is."

Brow furrowed, Charlus turned to him, "Alastor?"

"Gimme time, I'll think of something. I'm gonna get him back here – then we'll string the whole bunch of them up by their thumbs, I guarantee it."


	10. Early Signs of (In)Sanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: While contemplating his next course of action, Alastor reflects on the dismal facts of his state of mind, love life and friends both past and present.

**Early Signs of (In)Sanity**

Tea is all well and good of course, but when it comes to fuelling one's thoughts there really is nothing like the effects firewhisky has on the imagination. Reliable Charlus provides a bottle before he leaves for work, and Carrington conveniently leaves behind his silver cigarette case, mostly full, for him to enjoy, winking on his way out the door that he's gifted him 'super fuel for that fire your brewing, old bean.' He hates to admit given the arm's length relationship he tries to keep with tobacco, but it does have a way of clearing thoughts for the better.

Only Bobby McGonagall disapproves of this whole process, showing his Presbyterian side, glowering like his vicar father at the fact that Alastor has the gall to imbibe drink before 12 o'clock. Not that he sticks around to watch, or any of them for that matter. Working men as they are, and unemployed as he is, they all leave for work. Alphard, who could stay being unemployed as well for the moment, leaves as well, kissing Dorea's hand at the door and citing he has lunch with the Minister's son to prepare for.

So it's he and Dorea alone in the house. She tempts him to the Sitting Room, bottle, cigarettes on the coffee table spread out while he sits on the plush, green leather sofa. Kissing the top of his head she asked that he call her or the House-Elf if he needs anything, before leaving to her own work upstairs. Dorea has a column in _Witch Weekly_ , and contributes to a few others, including _Transfiguration Today_ – so it's just him now, back on his own and his thoughts again. Thoughts of Druella.

He can see her now, imagines her admonishing him. "Poor little toad, Alastor. Look at you, went and got all dressed up for this morning and now you're looking more shabby than ever."

"Hardly my fault Dorea's such a good cook," he imagines himself retorting, striking a match, lighting the end of his cigarette and watching it burn out the full length.

Surely she could only snort in reply, "Dorea's elf you mean."

His head cocks, pondering, swirling his whisky before swallowing, "Not like you to speak so cruelly of Dorea."

Her invisible hands shuffle, nervous, knowing he's caught her out, "It's not my fault, you know how I am when I'm jealous. The way she led you, shuffling through this house like you were an old married couple. What do you think Charlus would have thought if he'd seen that kiss just now?"

A cloud of smoke from the nostrils as he fails to bate himself, "Now I know I'm talking to myself, that kind of vulgarity is Alastor Moody's trademark own. Your turning into your Grandad, going looney."

"Don't acknowledge the fact, dear," Druella goes on saying, "and don't carry on doing it, then you really will go mad."

"Well there, madam, lies in yet another narrow yet fucking insurmountable, deep fucking divide in the differences between you and I. You have not yet reached the age have you, where you're moved to utterance of thoughts properly kept silent? And I don't mean the occasional, odd mutter and mumbling when a happy tune comes to mind. I mean the habitual fucking vocalization of such thoughts best kept to yourself, cause the fucking thoughts just build up inside the noggin clawing for a fucking escape. And you know that if they are projected outward in private yet dignified manner, then you may make those thoughts into reality and start on a course of fucking murder and mayhem – not that you'd ever go so far mind, just that is the only other method of conveyance as comes to your beleaguered, constipated mind." Pause for much needed whisky and breath of cigarette. "So hence to make the disgusting discourse flow freer, I imagine I talk to you: fucking love of my life, who I like to think of as having a photo of me hidden in pride place, though where she knows that fucking cocksucker, rich blind bastard of a husband she… you have. Fuckin', fuckin' fuck."

He's running out of steam. He drains his glass, picks up the bottle and starts pacing "Fucking Carrington, stupid bastard."

"Odious man," Druella agrees at last. "I never did like him. Always wanted to be the centre of attention, always liked to bow and scrape to authority. You never could see eye to eye most the time."

"He is a thousand feet high," he says, taking a swig. "But know, he wouldn't go and dob us all in now. Not that Alphard is on side."

She sighs, "Poor Alphard, he could do so much better."

"Even a man as blessed as Alfie has to have his flaws. That fucking London house he has, richer than god…"

"Ah," Druella would be saying, "home. Don't think I didn't see what you'd done to yours by the way. Always a pretty little house, what did you do to it?"

"Not me, that bastard Oskar/Jock – Scottish vagabond with a talent for burglary and side business in murder. There's a man I'd like to have a chance at killing."

Aghast, she says, "No, Alastor, not kill. Not you a murderer."

He laughs, a guttural noise that makes him already ashamed to make it. "You've been out of my life too long. The things I did in Europe..."

"Yes, you and Miklós Bethlen. Now there was a man should have liked to meet properly. You both ran around Europe like a playground, playing your grand game of piratical heroes, your child's idea of morality, till things started to change."

He corrects her, "That wasn't Miklós. I was a fallen angel long before he bumped back into him. The son of a bitch that warped me, used me up. That sssss- _snake_ saw me coming, and I walked into it willingly, because Dumbledore asked me to. Bounced me across a continent like a knight on a chess board, arm in arm with the devil, his own tin soldier who knew no better."

Druella would be shaking her head, "You really are awful at metaphors, Alastor. As if you could be so easily manoeuvred into position like that. One day you'll have explain this all to me in person, take me out to dinner-"

"Quiet!" He says to himself, perhaps too loud, half expecting Dorea to come barging in with a straitjacket.

"Oh dear, is that the burgeoning of an idea, Alastor. 'Manoeuvred into position', was that what caught your attention. Come on now, toad, put it all together. Just because you cannot be buffeted so easily, maybe you can move someone else. But who? Who are trying to draw out?"

He rushes to the fireplace, and kneels down like it's a call to prayer. A flash of floo powder and his face comes rushing up to find, "Charlus!"

Startled as you'd expect, the papers that poor Chuck is siphoning through go scattering into the air, and a hand to his heart as if to try restart it. "Godsake, Alastor. Gave me a bloody fright." He starts recollecting them, but stops to ask. "You finally had a break through?"

Feverishly nodding, he says, "Yes. I need you to go find Bones – then both of you go to the Shafiq house and watch it, everything the missus does I want to know. The come to my house tomorrow evening."

Brightening, Chuck asks, "I trust this means we're still in it?"

"Yes, we're gonna have our man, Charlus. Now on to it."

He pulls his head back out the fire, and treats himself with another cigarette. As he strikes the match, he thinks of Druella catching in his eye, looking at him fondly, but with her feline grin. She would tell him, "Your blood is up, darling."

The smoke is an easy release, he feels his legs bend with the exhale. "My blood is growing thin."

Her hand should then go to catch his and squeeze, a resolute, "Never," dominating her lips, "You are the best Auror and the best man I have known."

It should cheer him, but the absence of the reality saddens him. And resigned he admits the fact, "Whatever I am or maybe, I have become the sworn enemy of Miklós Bethlen."

"A worthy opponent, surely."

Certainly, Druella, but not the one I should have like to choose.

* * *

_Tuesday Night_

Charlus and Edgar are still breathless by the time he answers the door for them. Dorea has decided to relocate to his place for the evening, and has been left in trepidation for her husband's return, making a sporting effort of trying to tidy his impossibly messy belongings into some sort of order. While he has decided to play chef for the evening, and has banged out his best chicken soup, which is edible if nothing else. When the urgent wrap of knuckles comes at the door, he flies out of the kitchen with his apron still on. He ushers them in, taking cloaks and coats off of them, and plants them in his Kitchen where they sit around the small table, where he plates them soup, pours tea and glasses of firewhisky before starting to pace the room to contemplate their findings.

"Got a fairly full report for you, Alastor." Chuck says, spooning pieces of chicken into his mouth, slice of bread in hand that he urgently dips.

Still panting, Bones adds, "She's been going like the clappers all day." He pulls a handkerchief out his sleeve and dabs his forehead.

"Moves bloody fast for such an old thing," Charlus grumbles, before gorging on bread in three might bites, "Yesterday was a waste of time, but today – my god – she was up the crack of dawn and out before the post arrived."

Now with his breath back and shifting to take up his own spoon, Bones takes the extra time to inspect his meal, "She was out the house, onto the Muggle bus as soon as it came-"

Interrupting, Charlus takes time to add the detail, "Fog and snow was damned thick, to boot. I lost track of her enough time, but Bones was onto her trail like bloodhound. She's rattled, Alastor, tell us how you managed it?"

Taking a few tentative sips of his soup, Bones carries on, "She travelled all the way to the Muggle picture House, made a booking for two seats next to one another, for Thursday coming. Didn't even ask what was showing."

"You ever seen at meeting planned so blatant, Alastor?" Charlus asks, blowing on his spoons and thanking his wife as she retrieved a blanket from somewhere and slapped it round his shoulders. "One ticket she took and sent by owl from Alwin's Aviary, no idea what address, but we do know she bought a muggle stamp beforehand. Reckon she put it on, chief?"

He was grinning now, had thrown his apron off and was rubbing his hands together, pouring glasses of whisky for everyone, refilling Chuck and Edgar's. "Almost definitely," he said, toasting all their health.

Dorea merely sniffed at her glass reprovingly, "And how do you know that? What did you do to bait her?"

Triumphant he said, "I sent her a postcard."

She dipped her head, fingers on the bridge of her nose, "Not some filthy thing my cousin would buy?"

Reassuringly, he grabbed her hand, "Only of Windsor Castle, pet."

"And what message was on said card, oh mighty one." Charlus asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"'Wish you were here'" They all stare expectant. "It was a code me and Miklós would use if we needed to arrange a long distance meeting. Or if a contact had information or work for us, they would do the same. The message meant nothing, but a postcard with picture of castle or Muggle landmark meant an emergency meeting was needed. That ticket will be where and when the meeting will take place."

"So… what?" Bones said, setting down his spoon, and pushing the bowl away from him in the least offensive manner, "This is how you plan to lure back Jock?"

His grin beamed wider, and at the look Charlus dropped his spoon with a clang. "Not Jock, it's Miklós. You're trying to bring Miklós Bethlen back to England!"

He shrugged, as though the he'd only just contemplated the idea, "Maybe. If he will come. If he's still clinging to the old ways. Innovation was my forte not his, but the more I look at what we know about how he's been working I can still see he's just be re-engineering the methods we used years ago. He may well come…"


	11. A Trap is Sprung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: The final pieces fall into place, as, with help from his friends and allies, Alastor lures his enemy back to England for a reckoning.

**A Trap is Sprung**

_Thursday Evening – Hull_

It was not an especially big theatre, but it was big enough for their purpose. And best of all it was the right mix of populated and deserted. They had set and primed the trap perfectly. Alastor sat with Charlus by his side right at the back, where they had the best possible view of Mrs Shafiq, on her own bunched up, and looking around herself urgently, almost panicking. In that cinema, however, she was not the only one panicking: despite his best efforts, Alastor could feel that Charlus was starting to grow edgy. They were well into the third act by now, but there was still no sign of Miklós Bethlen. He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time, before leaning over to whisper at his friend.

Alastor sat with his back slid more than half way down his chair, eyes fixed to the screen as black and white figure went back and forth, elbows resting on the arms of his chair and hands together beneath his chin. He made no effort to move as Charlus leaned in, tapping his watch.

"He's cutting it fine if he is coming, Alastor. Not long before the happy ending, then what do we do?"

"Quiet," he whispered back, sharply.

"Sorry," Came the reply, just as quick, "this is the worst part about the job, the waiting. Doesn't help this thing we're watching is a load of old crap. Carrington probably loves it."

Of course it wasn't just the two of them in this trap. The whole family was here and called upon to do their duty. Carrington was further down in front, much closer to the screen than even Mrs Shafiq, where he sat languid as though this were his living room and as muggle born could fit into the audience better than any of them; Edgar Bones was one the inside as well, guarding the only exit, keeping track of who left and entered; in the lobby area they had Robert McGonagall, under the pretence that he was catching the next showing having missed the current one, ready to be on hand if the balloon went up inside the cinema; and Alphard and Dorea were in a nearby pub, ready in case the balloon went up outside of it.

Scanning the crowd with his eyes, Alastor suddenly widened and tapped Chuck, but he was already leaning forward too, his eyes on the same place. A figure had abruptly stood up and shifted rows, shuffling along through them with an awkward limp.

"I've got him: down in front. How long do you suppose he was here for?"

* * *

It was with a great ache in his bad leg that Miklós Bethlen eased himself down into the new seat. Nobody had made anything of it, not even the poor woman sat down next to. That was good of course, it meant no one else was watching them, which is what he liked, the privacy of a crowd. Casually, he turned his head slightly and amiably said, "Hello, Frau Shafiq."

She gasped, obviously startled, " _Miklós_!"

He made nothing of her outburst, kept to form and refocused his eyes on the screen. "Vhy do you sink it is zee muggles enjoy such barbarity in zer entertainment?" He pondered, cocking his head slightly, as if to better understand the brutal scene on display before him. "Especially zee English, zey are almost as bad as we are."

"At last," Mrs Shafiq said, like it was a prayer to God. "I was beginning to think you were not coming."

* * *

"Bones does know his job, Chuck?" Alastor asked, resuming his languid position, but with his eyes now firmly fixed on the back of his enemy's head.

"Yes," Charlus confirmed, wiping his glasses with the fat end of his tie, "If and when they move to leave, he will follow with Miklós in case they split up. Carrington will stick with Mrs Shafiq."

"Good."

* * *

Feeling the need to cut through the awkward air between them, Miklós cut straight to the point that was on the edge of Mrs Shafiq's tongue. "I had nozing to do vith Hector's death, I svear to you." This only seemed to offend her, and she shrank back away from him a moment, but he quickly grabbed her by the hand to prevent her fully escaping his clutches. He clarified, "If I had it vould haff been cleaner. Less fallout. You vould not haff been inwolved."

Still sneering at him, she spat, "Meaning that you'd have killed me too."

That angered him. "Never!" He lied, scorned by her arrogance, her sudden move to think that her sense of self importance had out grow the fear of him. He tried to sooth that out of her, "You are too important to me. I do value you."

She turned her face from him, "Jock did it on his own."

He stopped, and turned to face her amazed. "So zat it vhat ve are calling him now?"

"It is a name he has used with others." She plainly shrugged.

"And how do you know zat?!"

* * *

"They're not moving, Alastor. What do we do?"

…

"…Wait…"

* * *

Miklós turned to face the screen again. Something was not right. Frau Shafiq was far too sour, embittered to really want to be here. He probed her reasoning, "Vhy send Vindsor Castle?"

It took her by surprise, and again she plainly stated, but with the edge of concern to her voice, "A request for a meeting. As you sent me."

Suddenly he felt like laughing, then he wanted to turn round and stand up, switch on the lights, draw the curtains and end the charade he'd been lured into. But that would be foolish, and his end also. "Alastor…"

Frau Shafiq tensed up again, "Moody?!" She was as horrified as he was amused

Part of him really did want to start looking around, "I vonder if he is here…"

"You mean that he sent it."

Fool of a woman she was growing too agitated, would spoil everything. "Come now, my dear," he said, reassuring her. "My old friend Alastor could be watching us right now."

* * *

Alastor saw the way she moved away, then the sudden arm that went around her and pulled Mrs Shafiq back into Miklós' embrace. His brow furrowed, "He knows."

"Christ," Chuck breathed, and looked to check that Bones and Carrington were still in position. "Do we still wait?"

He nodded.

"What for?"

"Wish I knew."

* * *

"Listen, my dear," he purred, his arm outstretched offering the comforting space of his chest for her to take refuge in. With nowhere else in the world for her to go, Frau Shafiq eagerly dipped her head back into him, like a babe a mother's breats. "It vill be alright." And with his other hand drew his wand from his pocket, sliding it down his leg and onto his lap.

Despite the comforting embrace, her voice grew more desperate, "How can it be alright?!"

"Do not panic. I shall take care of everything. Have I not alvays taken care of you?"

"There may be dozen of Aurors here?"

He hushed her, let go of his wand and brushed a hand through her hair, "Shhh, easy now, my dear. All ve haff to do is sit quietly. Until this horrible thing is over. Here, here," He manoeuvred her head, spilled it down onto his lap, "Hide your face down here, as zough zis disgusting film has horrified you," He eased her down gently, and retook hold of his wand. Her panicked breathing grew steadier and steadier, his hand in her hair soothed her. "Zer, zer, my dear, it will all be over now." He pressed the tip of his wand to her head, and abscured, turned away from the flash of green light.

* * *

The screen went black. Summon of the muggles of the audience, apparently impressed by the film they had just seen. Others merely remained seated, gathering their belonging before filing out into the foyer, but between it all Alastor and Charlus had the eyes still concentrated on where Miklós Bethlen and Mrs Shafiq sat. Except one of them was no longer sat there. Charlus suddenly lurched forward as he saw the final wisp of Miklós Bethlen darting through the crowd to the exit.

"There he goes," he blurted, nudging Alastor with his leg. "Bones will be straight out after him. Bobby too if we're lucky enough."

Alastor however did not move, his eyes remained fixed on the seat. He clenched his fist and knuckles cracked when he saw the lack of movement from Mrs Shafiq. Noticing it to, Charlus paused as he rose from his seat and flopped back down.

"Why is she just sitting there?"

They saw Carrington's enormous form, lanky and towering above everyone else. He'd shifted to try and spy Mrs Shafiq's movement, but seeing the lack of them moved closer. Even as his enormous shadow loomed over her, she still did not flinch.

Alastor dipped his head, muttering, "I'm sorry."

Then abruptly but with great lethargy in his limbs stood. He placed his bowler on his head and turned away. Carrington was now vaulting over chairs as he rushed toward Mrs Shafiq and Charlus turned dumfounded toward his friend, "What is it, Al–"

"BY JOVE!" Crowed Carrington, as the entire room suddenly stooped dead.

Chuck's eyes landed on the limp form of Mrs Shafiq tumbling over, as Peter fell back away from her and a muggle woman started screaming at the site of the lifeless body rolling onto the floor.

"Good God." Was his breathless answer to the whole scene, while Alastor turned up the flank of the collar in his coat.

"I'm going home," he said, resigned to defeat. "When the rest of Magical Law Enforcement arrives, try and keep me out of it, please, Charlus. Though if Fawcett starts kicking up a storm, don't be afraid to if will save your job." From there he simply walked out, passed the muggles who had turned back to look for the source of panic, passed Robert, who had been on his way after Bones, but had heard the scream and doubled back. He didn't bother looking in at the pub to see after Dorea and Alphard, he just felt his feet strike cobbles then turned on his heels – apparating away.


	12. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: After wallowing in his sorrows from the failure of the cinema, Alastor rallies himself for the final confrontation with Miklós Bethlen.

**Crescendo**

_Midnight – Moody Residence_

He's staggering about his house again, like the simpering, vain, alcoholic wreck that he is. Juggling between bottles, just guzzling whatever booze is to hand, filthy, fucking wreaking of his own failure. He's finished now, for fucking good. His second chance has been fully spent, squandered. Exacerbated he resorts to talking to himself, and because he's drunk so quick he talks to Druella.

"So Her Majesty returns, huh? Well get a good long look before you go back to dribbling all over Cygnus Black's balls, cause this is me wound up and finished. Bastard's gonna grace me with his fucking presence this tomorrow. Fucking Laurence Fawcett, and his nitwit, dickhead son, Lionel, will impart to me the attitude of him and his fellow lying fucking bastards in the Ministry toward how much of a shafting I'm to have endure. Cause there is no question how fucked I am."

He flops down in a chair, wipes the spit, sweat and whisky off his face.

"I don't want to talk to these cocksuckers, but you have to, in life, you have to do a lot of things you don't fucking want to do. Many times, that's what the fuck life is, one foul, vile fucking task after another. I'd sooner they just smash in the fucking door with half a dozen Hit Wizards and gimme the fight of a lifetime, but know these bastards just love to fucking torture you with talking."

His fantasy of Druella sits and sighs, "You've grown tedious in your old age, darling."

He gulps straight from the bottle, pausing only to say, "Well fuck you too, missus Black." And goes back to coifing at the bottle. "I'm just gonna sit here, mind in fucking pieces till the devil comes for me again. I'm in despair of what to do elsewise."

And for fuck sake, even though he only imagines it, the force of her slap is still brutal. The bottle goes tumbling from his lips, and he rolls around almost expecting to see someone really there, but its only his imagined Druella standing over him with a face like thunder.

"Now you drunken son of a bitch, you've been beaten worse than this practice duelling with Charlus, and you didn't die then, did you?"

He grabs his head, bundles his hair in his fist and pulls on it, hard. The shock of the extra feeling in his numbing self, gives him something to focus on, re-engerizes the senses dulled by drink, "Fucking obviously not."

"And obviously you didn't fucking die when I left you like the going-nowhere-deadbeat you keep pretending to be."

"No."

"So including tonight, that's three times you've been in damaging incidents that didn't kill you. Not to mention all trips to Saint Mungo's and whatever other godless pits of refuge you've found yourself in during your time. Pain or damage are not the end the world, or despair or having the stuffing knocked out of you. The world ends when you die. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like Alastor Moody should, and give some back."

He rubs his face, tries to clear the fog of drink that's set in over his vision. "So what you're saying is: I should just go out and start fucking murdering people. Yeah, thanks, if I wanted that shit, I'd have stuck around Tom Riddle."

"Fucking bullshit! 'Tom Riddle', Tom fucking Riddle. You dumb, fucking idiot. Proving in two words that you're a coward and lying to yourself. Like some runaway spy in a muggle novel, as soon as you finished school you run across the Channel at Dumbledore's bidding looking for that maniac and get wound up in his maniac quest to try and bend the world in his own image. Whether its devilling in Dark Arts that would make Herpo the Foul blush at the thought. You knew exactly what you were getting into, but for all the years since lie to yourself that you were some innocent paragon of virtue that only jumped ship when things went too far. And you know what too far was? That the blessed Saint Tom Riddle was setting up the same kind of blood purist, maniacal cult that wanted to take over the world. Which means?"

He stands to his feet, "Which means that the same fucking cult – these Knight of Walpurgis – are the same fucking sons of bitches that To Riddle was forming ten years ago! Those run of the mouth bastards he hung around with a school will be in some German cave somewhere running their mouths about this big, fucking filibustering expedition they're being drafted into for the hubris of the famous Tom Riddle. The most malicious, bigoted bastard ever to be spat out of the face of humanity!"

"I should have killed him when I had the chance."

Druella would probably be clapping now, impressed by his performance. Then she would lean in teasing, and ask, "So now you have a chance to go for one of his underlings, and you're not gonna take it?"

He pauses, to think and consider, except he's interrupted. His phone rings. His phone _ringing_! Of all the things to interrupt him. It's not like he uses it at a proper phone. The only person who has his number is-

When the receiver is at his ear, he doesn't have chance to ask who's calling, Dorea's voice comes firing down the other end at him. "Alastor, we found him! Bones and I, we followed him, managed to catch up with him and we know where he is."

"MR MOODY!" Bones has obviously taken the phone, and his voice comes bellowing down the other end at him. It shakes his head, sends his eyes spinning, but he thinks it might just be having the effect of helping sober him up. "CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

"Yes, Edgar, I can you," he answers, holding the receiver away from his face to get a better angle on Bones' shouting. "What are doing? Where are you?" It occurs to him to ponder how they've found a phone, let alone got it working.  
Bones carries on bawling down the phone at him, "HE'S HOLD UP IN—"

But then presumably Dorea shushes him, and yanks the phone back to keep things quiet, or perhaps just lost her temper with his shouting, "Alastor," a suddenly to-the-point irritation set over her voice, "he's hold up in a boat on the River. Quite a big thing, right under some big, muggle statue. More or less out of site, but we managed to follow him."

"You managed to follow him from the cinema to the River? You're sure it is him?"

Bones must still be able to hear regardless of Dorea, and shouts over the top of her, though thankfully somewhat more reasonable volume, "It wasn't easy, sir! Bloody miracle, limp or no he was shifting like a hippogriff at full gallop!" There's a pause, and then he asks, "What happened to Mrs Shafiq? Did Carrington manage to pick her up? "

He sighs, rubs his eye to try and stop the blur in his vision, "No. She was dead. Miklós killed her."

Down the receiver, Dorea gasps and Bones is silent. The quiet shock of it covers them both, before Bones erupts again. "I knew it! I did! Soon as he slipped passed me, I caught the glimmer in his eye. The easiness of himself! Now there goes a bad one, I thought. You might call this Bethlen an old friend, and a good man, Mr Moody. But fact is he's just another killer!"

He goes silent. I knew that, as soon as he ran out of that ruin in Berlin, that the Miklós Bethlen I had known from schooldays was dead gone and buried. It had been confirmed when he came face to face those weeks later. That reasoned but passionate man was replaced by the burgeoning fanatic whose coolness of thought was directed at the contemplation of the most heinous acts of revenge against muggle kind. And presumably he's gotten better at it, if he does call Tom Riddle master now: a man who's talent for cruelty knew no end of depth.

At last he speaks, "Where are you?"

It's Dorea who speaks, an unmistakable quaver in her voice, "We had to double back in case he followed, we're a ways south of him where the river enters the sea. You do want to come, Alastor."

Of course she is right, for half a dozen reasons. Because with the death of Mrs Shafiq, this is about the last throw of the dice he has before he can wind up in Azkaban. Then there's the fact that Miklós Bethlen is more than a match for Dorea and Edgar, and would not hesitate to destroy them both – and he's had enough of death to stomach already, and couldn't bear to look Charlus in the eye and tell he knowing let his wife walk into a psychopath like Miklós' path without himself to put in between them. So he summons his trademark, brown trench coat and wand with a snap of his fingers, turns about on his heels and apparates back to Hull.

* * *

It takes a good ten minutes or so for him to find them both, running up the riverbank to seek them out. Any pretence of magical secrecy have gone of the window, and he's running with wand out and illuminated. Not that it does much good, the fog rolling in thick from the sea and river. There are few muggles out, which will hopefully reduce chances of collateral damage, the last thing he needs is for stray jinxes to start hitting muggles or Miklós to go in a frenzy and starting killing innocents because he knows he's cornered.

He finds Dorea and Edgar by a red muggle telephone box, they have their own wands out and illuminated. For a minute, a thought of where they got the change to use it crosses his mind. They rush to meet him, and Dorea looks expectantly behind him.

"Where are the others? Charlus?"

He rest a hand on his bent knees and doubles over. "Back at the cinema. No time to fetch them. The Department will be turning up in droves by now, and we haven't got time before Miklós does a runner. Let's go."

Edgar nods, adjusts his muggle flat cap, and leads him on. While Dorea follows, looking concerned, occasionally glancing backward – Hoping for her husband, Peter and Robert to follow after them out of the fog.

Bones whispers as they slowly advance along the riverbank, but the urgency in their footsteps or his voice hasn't lessened an ounce. The river water rustles as its rushes against the side, and occasional slaps can be heard as the fish feed on the insects full hardy or bold enough to try fly near the blackened body of water. Not that they can see them doing this mind, even if the thought crossed their minds to look. The fog has reduced all their vision to less than a few feet.

"Half the time we had no clue where we were, but he did. He had this route laid out and rehearsed in his head, Mr Moody. You can mark my words for it. Never slowed a jot." He suddenly stretched out his hand and stopped.

"The boat?" he asks, dousing his wand to ensure they won't be spotted.

Edgar and Dorea do the same, as she leans in to whisper, "Down there," gesturing at a narrow stairway that must lead onto a small pier or quay.

"Right," he says, thinking. Considering what move to make. Technically, none of them have any official grounds to be here, and they can't risk the time it will take to fetch Charlus or anyone who might be. They'd have to catch him and sound the alarm at the same time. "We'll have to rush him. By now the Ministry will probably be looking for someone, they'll know about Mrs Shafiq's death. Charlus will have them tracking any apparations or unauthorised portkeys in the area. Probably, Miklós will sail his boat out to sea then apparate away – the Ministry won't think to look for any non-magical transport. We'll move further down on his pier and ambush him. You two light this whole area up like a bonfire, and I'll send up a signal to draw in Charlus and Alphard: hopefully they'll have the Ministry with them."

"What signal?"

"You won't miss it. If we're lucky, Miklós will be looking around himself too much notice when we hit him."

They follow his lead, crouched low, wands out but barely enough light to see the back of each other. The steps were smooth stone, just had jagged, broken edges to them from years of hard use. Obviously, muggle fishermen must have used this place regularly, probably Miklós murdered one of them and stole the boat for his own use. Setting his foot down on the wood of the dock, Alastor cringes at the low creak of it groaning beneath his weight. In spite of the cold cutting deep into his blood and bones, he wipes a line of sweat off his brow with the back of his hand as the front of the boat is suddenly silhouetted in the blackness. They stop, and pause still low down, and can hear footsteps moving around on the decking.

Alastor stands, he means to speak, to call out first, as if to warn his old friend. But his voice catches and his blood freezes as he suddenly watches the boat delicately start to pull away from him. Bones notices it too, and raises up as well.

"He's going," he murmurs, suddenly and unable to distort the rest of Alastor, shoulders him out of the way and rushes forward. Wand raised in the air, he shout, " _Lumos Maxima!_ " sending an enormous flash across the water, then a ball of light erupts from his wand and sails into the air, illuminating the entire riverfront like the beam of a warships searchlight.

It blinds Alastor, raising his arm up, and Dorea follows Edgar's lead, sending her own Lumos up to join his. Suddenly, he sees the startled figure of Miklós Bethlen for the first time in what feels like a thousand years, and his eye also catches Edgar Bones, charging across the pier toward him.

"STOP! AURORS! STOP, YOU MURDERING BASTA- ARGHH!"

"Edgar, no!" He shouts, but it's too late.

As he leaps up to land a foot on the boat Miklós has turned on him, like a cornered viper and strikes out with his wand. The jinx lands square in Bones' chest, slowing him down for a moment, sending his other leg spread wide to miss its landing. In a slow freefall to the water, Miklós continues his attack and blasts out a flurry of rope from the end of his wand that tangles Edgar up ensuring he will drowned as he resumes normal speed.

Dorea shouts something from behind, and sends a curse whizzing passed his ear at Miklós. Hearing the satisfying splash of the drowning Edgar, Miklós lurches his whole body into an arch that outmanoeuvres the curse. He then assumes his stance, ready to take them on.

At last, Alastor raises his wand in the air, " _Periculum!_ " And a burst of red sparks shot out his wand and further illuminated the sky.

Amused, Miklós laughs, "Really, Alastor? I expected _better_!" he finishes by throwing his first curse at him, but he has seen a mile off and it's absorbed effortlessly by his shield charm.

"That means more Aurors are on their way, Miklós. Stand down while you have a chance."

Dorea has moved passed him, has her head over the side looking into the water. "Alastor, I can't see Edgar!"

Ruthless for any opportunity to strike, Miklós blasts another curse at straight for Dorea. "No!" he shouts, rushing his arm forward to guard her. She gives sudden shriek, jerking back from the spell, landing her well with in his protection. The curse lands right on his arm, but bounces harmlessly off of the coat like water on a duck's back.

"Still annoyed I wear this," he murmurs to Dorea, steadying her while their foe is still cackling to himself.

"It seems zat you are zee only Auror here, Alastor." Giggles Miklós, pacing about the deck of his ship as it drifts further away from the shore. "Your comrades must be far avay if you need sparks to signal zem. I zink I shall take my time." He waved his wand in a sudden jerk to the right, and the boat responded, suddenly stopping.

"Like hell!"

They went back and forth, a battery of curses from himself and Dorea answered by an assault of jinxes from the madman on the boat. Their spells lighting the whole place up like a shooting gallery, bursting wood, scattering stone, and shattering on the surface of the water. All the time Miklós laughed, as though he'd never had such fun.

"Who is this woman, Alastor?" he suddenly called, gesturing at Dorea. "Surely it could not be the fabled whore, Druella? Surely she hasn't come back- _ack!_ "

Triggered by his words, with lightning speed both he and Dorea sent hexes straight at him. His own when sailing passed, but in the effort of dancing round it Dorea's hit him square in the back. The blasting curse erupted on his flesh and sent him flying forward, off his feet and out sight. Such was the force of the blast that it shook the boat loose from its spellbound mooring and began drifting away again.

She shouted after him, "Don't speak of my cousin that way again!" Then she turned with urgency, rushing to look down at the riverside for Edgar Bones, "Alastor!"

Following, he pointed his wand into the blackness, and sent an illumination spell into the water. They could just see the wriggling outline of Bones on the riverbed. Dorea was starting to speak, but he cut her off, "You try grab him. I'm going after Miklós."

Protesting, she grabbed onto him, but he shrugged her grip off, spun on his heels and apparated to the boat. "Alastor!" she called after him, but she did not appear beside him, and he did not look back to shore to see whether she was aiding Edgar or not.

He crouched low, and moved down the craft. On land it had seem huge in it width, especially with Miklós striding up and down it like an insane admiral but now it looked too narrow to offer much space for comfort of movement. There was one sail in the centre, but it had not been let out and drifted purely with the current, or whatever enchantment Miklós had placed on it. All he could hear was the sound of the water breaking on the ship's bow, which made him all the more suspicious: he knew Miklós was hardy enough not to be downed by one Blasting curse. It was difficult to see again, they had drifted away from the best light of Edgar and Dorea's charms, and the sail was wide enough to cast a difficult shadow over most of the boat.

Warily, he tried to call out to him, quiet, trying not to give his position on the boat away, "Miklós?"

Then there was the sound of rushed footsteps on wood, Alastor looked up and saw body swing round with an arm on the sail, " _Avada Kedavra!_ "

On reflex, Alastor shut his eyes, and turned away from the Killing Curse. When he re-opened them, he was stood on the opposite side of the ship and saw the explosion of wood from where the spell hit the spot he had apparated away from. He raised his wand at Miklós, who was swing back around looking for where he'd reappeared at, and shouted, " _Flipendo!_ "

The Knock-Back jinx hit threw Miklós against the spot where Dorea's cure had hit. It was burnt, smoking flesh, and looked truly gruesome. The impact lurched him forward, his head smacking off the mast, leaving him dazed and crumpled against the wood. For a moment the fight seemed to have gone out of Miklós, and Alastor used the chance to get on even ground, running down the deck and climbing a ladder that put level with his opponent.

"Come quietly now, Miklós," Alastor warned, his wand still fixed on him.

Still mirthlessly laughing, Miklós asked, "Why not just kill me, Alastor?"

Defiant, he stood his ground, "You need to answer for your crimes. Your disregard for life has to be held to account. That's what separates us, makes me better than you."

That seemed to anger him, and a flash of rage went over his face. He lunged out his wand, pushing himself off the mast, and striking out suddenly. Alastor stepped back, and fired his Impediment Jinx, but it wasn't soon enough to feel the slash across his face from the Severing Charm and the blood running free. He put a hand to his face, could trace the open line of the wound from the bridge of his nose across his cheek and to his jaw.

Resolute, Alastor rose back up, wand still aimed at his enemy, and ignored the trail of bloody dripping down his face. Though he probably looked it, he knew that Miklós was one more worse for wear, could tell he was slowing down, the gaping wound on his back draining him of energy, the limp already cumbersome enough didn't help and the way his wand arm was equally limp by his side. He knew he could out last him, but Miklós would only grow more desperate and in that more dangerous.

At last he spoke, "So you have developed a sense of justice, eh Alastor." He spat on the deck at the idea, "No, I think you have questions that need answering still. And in spite of what you think, I would be grievously disappointed to kill you."

He shook his head, "I have all the answers I need." He lied, "and I expect the only disappointment you'd feel in killing me, is defying your master's orders. Has my old friend Tom Riddle gotten nostalgic for me?"

"Do not speak his name!" Miklós screeched, advancing, shooting spells everywhere in the vaguest direction of Alastor. "You – will – call – him –" They were to no effect, bouncing off the deck of the ship, or safely over his head, colliding with retaliatory spells, or deflecting off his coat, and Miklós seemed to faulter noticing the lack of effect.

"Call him what?" Alastor growled, digging his heels in, "What does Tom call himself now then?" he took a step, casting a spell that drove backward his adversary, " _Depulso_!" and repeated the bombardment of the same spell, frustrating Miklós, enraging him with the meagerness of the spell, yet the effectiveness in driving him back, keeping off his footing. "Tell me what that bastard goes by now."

In a fanatical cry, Miklós screamed, " _VOLDERMORT_!" and waved his wand suddenly in a full bodied arch that spouted fire from the tip, "You – call – him – Voldermort!"

Quickly, the fire suddenly began to take a shape between them, blistering the wood of the ship, blackening it to charcoal, and the mast simply went up like match wood. Alastor backed away as the Fiendfyre found its form in the shape of an enormous dragon. It blasted a column of fire into the air viciously, before flinging the force and flame of the same column down on him.

" _Protego_!" Alastor shouted at the last, as the storm of fire engulfed him and his shield. The strain was menacing, as the heat still forced it way through his barrier, Alastor gripped his wand with both hands to hold it. His efforts to hold up the shield almost seemed to have the opposite effect, as like the coils of a snake, the enveloping flames only tightened and boxed him in. With blood and sweat pouring down his face, he suddenly bellowed, " _Discutio_!"

Of its own accord, the shield suddenly shattered itself in an explosion of white light, shards of it cutting through the Fiendfyre, which seemed to snuff itself out in face of the light. As the majority of it faded, the dragon remained, with Miklós behind it, urging the fiery beast on for the kill. As it reared its head again, he aimed his wand at its puffed out chest and thundered, " _Tonitrus_!" which sent an enormous bolt of lightening cracking out from his wand, stabbing straight through the Fiendfyre, splitting it in half, and the flash illuminating everything as the fog and darkness seemed to burn away from the force of the spell.

Now the Fiendfyre was dying, it began to loose all shape and form. Miklós tried to make it resume a form, twirling his wand, trying to breathe new life into the flames. Seeing the distraction of his opponent, Alastor pointed his wand at the water and summoned as string of it to his command. He cracked it like a whip at the remains of the flame once, then at the burning wisps of fire that had caught the boat. He could feel the blasted, scorched planks beneath creak and shift alarmingly, so unprepared to drown doused the flames before they burnt up the whole ship, gushing more water from the river over it.

As the spray washed over him, and the fire was extinguished, Miklós began applauding Alastor's display, "Very good, as always, Alastor."

Wheeling round, wand gripped tight, a fearsome and terrible sight with dried blood, soaked to the sink and eyes blazing, Alastor raged, "You should have brought your dogsbody back with you! Maybe the you'd have had half a chance a killing me again, invisibility cloaks and all!"

"I'd have liked nothing better than to arrange another reunion between you both, Alastor."

Suddenly, Alastor faltered, blinked and paused, "'Another reunion'? I've met Jock… Oskar… whatever you call him… we've met before?"

Miklós' jaw suddenly dropped, positively relishing his ignorance at what he thought had been alarmingly obvious to Alastor. "You mean, you don't know… even if you did not recognise him. Even if not, he thought you'd work it out. Afterall, who else would know the charms your family put up, Alastor?!"

"Who is he?" This had taken an importance hitherto unseen, in his mind. It had never that important who had tried to assassinate him, but the way Miklós turned his head, the curve in his head, the sudden sharpness, deviancy and sadism in his grin turned his blood to ice. Alastor fired a warning stunner at his enemy, bellowing, "TELL ME!"

It had been about to go well wide of his head, but Miklós flicked out sharply with his wand hand, catching the stunner with the tip of his wand, before flicking Alastor's own spell back at him. He tried to dodge, but slipped on the wet wood, and the blow took him on the shoulder, doubling spread eagle across the deck.

With a new casualness to this engagement, Miklós strolled over, approaching Alastor as if there was no care in the world. When Alastor lurched up, tried to regain control of his senses, Miklós flicked his wand again and another Severing Charm tore into him, streaking right over his chest, and nipping at his throat. It sent Alastor slamming back onto the wood, swearing blind murder, deafened by agony, and his lifeblood now bleeding into the scorch marks and river water across the ship.

Looming over Alastor, Miklós looked suddenly contemplative, "Now this is a thing I should have liked my master to see. A pity he has outgrown you, Alastor. He has outgrown everything, all us mere mortals."

Spitting blood down his chin, Alastor grabbed onto his old friends leg in desperation, trying to impress the need of his next words on the very fabric of his being. "Miklós… Who? Who?!"

"Poor, Alastor," he said, pulling his leg away from him, then stamping down hard on his hand. Alastor howled; Miklós just laughed. "Listen close, Alastor, because this will be the last thing you _ever_ here: the man I sent to kill you at your home; the man who killed Hector Shafiq; the man who led the attack on you in Diagon Alley and so very nearly succeeded; that man, was your _father_ , Alastor."


	13. The Devil and the Deep, Blue Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: A flashback into the final days of the Moody household and the culmination of the fate of Miklós Bethlen.

**The Devil and the Deep, Blue Sea**

It was like his entire self had gone into freefall. For a moment he enters a sort of limbo, his whole existence frozen in time – or rather outside of it. He feels the creaking, breaking, scorched wooden boards and planks of the ship's decking all dissolve away, and he falls through, the boat and Miklós disappearing before his eyes. The water of the river parts for his fall as well, he goes through and down and down, eventually he sees the rocks, and sandy bottom of the river, the refuge, rubble and broken remains that cover a seafloor as well, only for the earth itself to open up and swallow him. He falls and falls, but it goes straight passed his vision barely recognized, because the whole of his conscious mind is concentrated on the fact that Miklós exposed the truth that his father had been than whom he has being hunting, and in return hunted him – more than that, in fact actually did come damn close to finish him off for good.

 _Bastard_.

Of course it all started with his dad: the darkness that bled into his heart; that poison of madness that found root in him, and has been the worst part of him since; that made him not only capable of evil, but occasionally seeking it out. That thing in him which when it rears his head, is more devastating and destructive than any piece of magic, that taints all it touches.

If feels like a lifetime since he last saw his father. It was in the bad days, when his father had been disgraced for bad conduct and rightly sacked from the Auror Office – and with no criminals to smack about anymore, his old man had turned to drink and began beating his wife about instead, and his three kids.

He, Alastor, the oldest of the three was thirteen and already as tall as his dad, which made him liable to receive heavier damage from the beatings. But he could take it – he was Alastor Moody, thirteen years of age and could do anything, was wholly invincible. But what he couldn't take was seeing the old man go after his mum, his brother and his sister. In the end it was lucky for the elder Moody that his son was hundreds of miles away from the family home at Hogwarts, and so the regular bombardment of boozed up beatings could go on out his sight and he was unable to intervene. Until he came home for Christmas of course, and the tinder box finally just went up.

* * *

_The snows had come in hard that winter, but that was not about stop his father, or get the way of him having his load on. He'd been down the local pub for the best part of the day. He never drank with the muggles his father, always on his own, so was never able to blow off any of his steam on them and risk the trip to Azkaban and do them all a favour: he always kept his powder dry till the landlord threw him out, or it was closing time. Then when he came home, pissed up, he have the first person who met his eye at home battered._

_Alastor knew this well, and was by then firmly resolved to end it all for good. He had not settled on a specific day, but he had planned in his head the perfect set of circumstances: namely his mum had to be off and out the house, and his Father had to be the one to raise his hand to him first. There was every chance in a fair fight that he could have the old man in a fight, the drink made him loosened up and he had compensate by more punches but with less force and momentum behind them. And he never expected a fight back, because he never got one._

_But now, Alastor was going to give him one. The fight of a lifetime, if it had to be, because he was going to make it all stop. Mum was out, had needed to dash out to her Father, and being the eldest that had put him in charge. His brother and sister kept quiet enough, they could tell there was something steaming up in him, but he had let them both have a try of his broomstick in the back garden out of sight earlier, so they had been content to just stay in their bedrooms. Until Dad came back that was…_

_It was barley gone three in the afternoon, so they'd obviously thrown him out the pub. He struggled and fumbled with his house keys, scratching them against the keyhole before finally losing his temper with the infernal device and blasting the door open with his wand. Alastor was in the Living Room, and saw the door nearly fly off its hinges._

" _Right!" his gruff voice bawled, "Everyone! Kitchen! Now!" For such a squat, bulky figure, he still seemed to swallow up most of the room with his presence alone. He was red in the face, and eyes bloodshot. He noticed his eldest sat on one of the armchairs, staring at him._

" _You hear?!" Then he grinned, baring yellow teeth, "I've been doing some thinking."_

" _Really?" He asked, genuinely amazed by the revelation, but his tone dripping with sarcasm._

_His dad's eyes twitched, "Aye, I have done" He then turned and bellowed again, "I SAID: KITCHEN, NOW!"_

_They heard the patting of small terrified feet suddenly spring up and rush downstairs. Each of them peered round the side of the door, petrified before quickly running past the immense bulk of their father. Catching glance of an easy target, the older man through back his hand out and clapped his youngest son across the back of the head. Alec yelped and ran faster into the kitchen, while his older brother clenched his fist at the sound of the crack of fist on skull._

_Observing his handy work on the back his knuckles, Dad said to no one in particular, "She out? Daft, old mare." He began marching into the kitchen, turning his head back to say, "And you!"_

_Sulkily, Alstor followed them all to the kitchen. His dad was striding up and down the line that his youngest children had made, like a general inspecting a regiment on parade, while he just leaned against the kitchen doorframe._

" _Look at you," he said suddenly, patent disgust on his face at the relish his father had at the terror he was inspiring, "Striding out like some rat-arsed, maniac Bishop. Lucky thinking didn't trouble you earlier? Might have found you mid-sip in something else." He made the gesture of drinking from an imagined glass. His Father's face began to dark, both in demeanour and the shade of red. He just stared straight back, "What?" and glanced behind himself, mockingly. As though he were about to be ambushed from that direction. The he pushed off the wall and pointed at the older man with amazement "Taken by a new idea? Is that the face you pull when thinking, cause you would not want to look at me like that for long."_

_His Father's knuckles cracked, then he whirled about, grabbed his youngest by the head and threw hard against the kitchen counter. Alec never stood a chance, he was too busy crying at the beating that was on its way to even notice when it was happening. He bounced off the surface and went flying with excess force. His sister just screamed, and as she always did, hid herself under the table – clever girl, his sister._

_Unprepared for the unprovoked cruelty, Alastor was still rushing to his brother's side when his Father's menacing face cut him off. They squared up to each other for a moment, and his dad had a finger outstretched in warning._

" _He'll wake up." He promised, unconered for the damage he might have inflicted on his own child, "Probably, he won't have any teeth left, but he will be a wiser lad for it. And the last thing he will remember is you," the finger pressed into his chest now. Alastor felt his fists by his sides, shaking the blood rising in his cheeks, as his Dad carried on, "you and your mouth. Won't he, Al?"_

_As if to dignify himself with a new authority, Dad grabbed his braces, stroking them with his thumbs, but his voice was no less violent. "RIGHT!" He bellowed and began resuming his inspectorial pacing of the kitchen, "As I said, we are having new rules, in this house. We are undergoing a new regime change. There are now fucking rules here. And there are fucking rules for a fucking reason. The fact is, they have to be obeyed."_

_He slammed a fist down suddenly on the table, before bobbing down to loom over his daughter, "All right?"_

_She merely sobbed, nodded and went back to crying into her knees, which she held tight against her chest._

" _Rule number one: Anything, that your better person says to you, persons which only include fucking me, myself and I, anything we say to you, yeah? NOT ANSWERED BACK!" He stopped to kick Alec upside the chest, the force of it suddenly choking him back into life, in a spit of bloody and teeth. "Rule number two, three, I don't care. For the rest of your fucking miserable measly lives, yeah?" Finally he squared back up him his eldest, "Because I am also a complete fucking bastard of untold proportion. Answering back gets fucking answered BACK!" And smashed the back of his hand across Alastor's jaw._

_No soon does the first blow have him reeling than the second comes, then the third, but in a gap between the third and fourth, Alastor does something drastic. Hurriedly forcing his body to go against the momentum, slides out his own fist from underneath somewhere and crosses straight across the old man's cheek. He's never punched anyone like that before, but there must be some weight behind him that he's had pent up in himself, or maybe its just because no one's ever punched his dad back before. But either way it blunts his advance and Alastor sees the look of shock across his face to realise that somebody is fighting back for once._

_It's fleeting the sight but its damned inspiring, lights a fire in his belly, and soon they are stuck in a real bare-knuckle melee. Must be some beating they give one another, fist flying from all sides, neither one of them sure which ones are coming from where. Smacks coming from every angle. No sooner were they struck dizzy from the smack from the left, than came another a smack from the right._

_Wherever they come from, all he can imagine they must all be striking the left of his face because the vision in that eye has almost completely gone. He can't feel a lot, just the random propelling of his arms, the hard clench of his fist, and whatever his knuckles manage to hit and bounce off of._

_But the longer he goes at it, the more he starts to slow down, feels no impact of his aim when it should hit a target. They're smacking one another around so quick, his brain can't bounce along fast enough to keep up. He's sees the image of his Father's battered face, lunges out and tries to clink him back in the jaw again, but when he watches the fist move, the head shifts and is in a different place. What he'll best remember from that fight is the pounding headache he'd be with for three weeks afterward, so surely his dad got more than a few jabs in on his skull._

_Eventually, he's warned the old man down. Scared that he might well loose the fight with his thirteen-year-old son, he pushes him away and dazed in the gap between them, draws his wand from his back pocket. The Stinging Jinx lands right on his chest, and at such close range lifts him off his feet. Alastor must sail right across the living room, cause he feels the back of his head crack off the window, or rather hears the smash of glass and the rush of wind off his ears as it runs into the house._

_Dazed, his chest aching in a new way to the bruised and battered rest of himself, he doesn't have time to look where his father is before the old man is one top him, cursing, dragging him off the broken glass with a hand round his throat, the other with wand in, stabbing into his cheek._

" _You shit, boy. You bastard, you're fuckin' dead, little bastard, dead, dead…"_

_He is so close to him that he can now smell the booze on his breath, and it's strong enough to near sedate him, almost does, but then he's flung head first into the fire place. As the coals press against him, he's thankful he never bothered to light one when the cold began to draw in as the snows picked up._

_He's ready for the curse to come down on his head, here's the words forming in his Father's mouth, "Cruci-"_

_But then someone bellows over the top of him, "EXPELLIARMUS!" and there's the flimsy sound of the wood bouncing off of the ceiling, as the wand goes soaring out of his Father's hand._

_With reprieve, and reinforcements that are on his side, Alastor dares to push himself off his front and out the cobbles. It's difficult to see a first, as now in addition to the blood there's coal dust over his vision, all he can see is two outlines with wands out, pointed at the monster. When his eyes clear and he rubs away the refuse blocking them, his mum is there, and best of all his granddad too. They've come in through backdoor, which he figures to be strange, but can see from his position on the floor between their legs that they have seen to his brother and his sister for the moment – face fixed, but still covered in blood; awake and not hiding but both crying in each other's arms._

_The image of that numbs him, but it's the look on his mum's face as she sees the sorry state he is in that breaks his heart open. Her face goes cold and pale from the rage and fury at her husband in the snap of a finger. Part of it he finds funny, what would she have made of him if she saw him at Quidditch try-outs. She throws a hex at her husband that barges him out her way before she's all over his trying to scoop him up into her arms like a new born. But he resists, tries to cut through her soothing tone and the hands that roam over his bruises. Only once she has eased him back to his feet, vainly tried to brush him down with her hand and subsided her own self does she turn for her final conversation with her husband._

_His Granddad, Aldwyn Moody, has his son at wand point still, and if the command were to be given to execute his child, Alastor didn't need to guess his response, even if he bothered to give one. Only as his mother, Mrs Moody, finally rounded on her husband did Aldwyn lower his and took a guarding hand on his grandson's shoulder._

" _Albert," at last snapped his mum's voice. "Go. Leave this house do not come back. Don't ever ever ever come back. If you come near me or my children again, I will kill you. Go, now!"_

_They all watched his father stomp out the house with nothing to his name but the clothes on his back and a damaged wand in his pocket, then with not even a look back at the front door, out of their lives for good. Without a further word, Alastor's mum turned to the kitchen trying to hide her face as she tended to her youngest children. Leaving Alastor in custody of his grandfather, neither of them having moved since the last image of Albert Moody vanished from sight out the broken window. The only, and for Alastor had to be and should have been, word ever said on the matter between his family, was the reassuring squeeze of Aldwyn Moody on his shoulder, and the murmured, "Well done, lad."_

* * *

As Alastor lay their burning on the deck of Miklós' ship, he slowly began to feel the sensation of the earth and river bed began to yield him back up. As if it had just dropped him flopping around like a fish underneath the boot of his friend turned enemy. The whole senseation of his meory that came bubbling to the surface, like he'd been looking down on it all through a Pensieve, it now returned him to the exact spot and the menacing sight of Miklós Bethlen above him, gloating.

"You hear zat, Alastor? It was your father, Albert Moody. Zat maniac father of yours. Zee things he told me of you, my friend – such elegant hatred – I am sorry I could not facilitate your reunion."

At the last the most important part of the memory come back to him. Not the final glance at is father; his mother's pained face; Alec beaten and bloodied on the floor; nor that pit of rage he tapped into to unleash his barrage upon his father. It's the firm hand on his shoulder at the end, and the thought of the mighty, Aldwyn Moody by his side that brings new strength to bubble up to the surface of him.

His hand tightens around his wand, and he grunts, "I heard." Then waves it and the sound of a cracking whip, and brilliant flames sends Miklós flying away from him. He leaps back to his feet, coat battered, and flying in the wind behind him like a battle flag.

Reassured and confident, he announces, "I heard you, Miklós. And that's the only thing I had left to know." He raises his wand for the final time, "Now come quietly. Your escape plan is in ruins," he gestures to the flame wrecked, shattered, barely floating remnants of the boat, "and the rest of Magical Law Enforcement is here." He indicates the riverbank, where a small battalion of Aurors and assorted ministry figures have rallied to his signal, and are probably deducing the best way to get over to them. The final ultimatum is delivered with decisiveness, "Surrender."

But the fanatics fire is still burning in Miklós: he will go down in flames, or as large a pile of bodies as he can make. His arms make a great arc, spreading out, Christ like, and Alastor flicks his wand at the image.

" _Colloshoo!_ "

The Stickfast Hex his Miklós square on the spare hand, zooming him to railings and gluing him to the metal barriers of the boat.

Immediately, Alastor knew he should have gone to the other arm, or disarmed him, for the final menacing spell comes still from the wand as he pointed it at the floor of the ship itself, " _Bombarda Maxima!_ "

Weakened by Fiendfyre and all the other spells in their arsenals, the scorched, charred remnants of the boat were barely more than matchwood, and stood no chance against the Exploding Charm, and the whole thing caved in upon itself. For real this time, Alastor felt the rush of water coming up to meet him, he floundered around for a moment as the push of the wreckage pressed down on top of him, but after what felt like far too long of pushing against the current and flow, burnt wood crushing down on him, he finally resurfaced.

Initially, he looked around himself, flummoxed, with eyes searching for the rest of the boat, or even Miklós, with water splashing up into his face making it difficult, before the inevitable piece of lead dropped into his belly. He dove back under as soon as it dawned on him, began pushing the water aside as he tried to sink himself lower. There was still ruins of the craft caught in the drift, but at first none seemed to be large enough to have Miklós stuck to them. He delved deeper, held onto a bit of wreckage himself to sink faster. The river can't have been that deep, for soon he had reached the bottom, and tried looking around but at that depth at night no light could be had.

Alastor rummaged for his wand, but his pockets were blank of it, and he couldn't recall where or when it had slipped away from him. The press in his belly and lungs from lack of air was hurting him now, and he knew he hadn't long before he passed out. He swam a few yards, before something bumped into him. It was difficult to arc back and even harder still to look for what had struck him, but sure enough, Miklós was their swatting at him with his fist, one arm held back keeping him anchored to the shipwreck.

The closer Alastor drew, the wilder Miklós became, but eventually not caring how hard he hit him and pulling himself along by grabbing the Hungarian by the scruff of the sleeve and collar, circumnavigated him and began to yank at his arm, to try and pull him free of the Stickfast Hex, but neither the spell, flesh nor wood was going to yield to him. Not with Miklós pushing him away.

Frustrated, Alastor pulled back a moment. As if through the water this was the time to try and reason with his enemy, but soon found pause at the look on his face. That rabid, mania which Alastor had seen in his eyes before was absent; no maleficent grin, and murderous spirit which he had seen in Miklós since the day they had almost died together in Berlin amongst a muggle-made hell. For the first time in all those years, Alastor saw the poor, alone and frightened schoolboy, who still mourned the losses suffered from the Muggle wars and Grindelwald and was terrified of the world around yet determined to face it with dignity. The pleading in his eyes for mercy at last.

When Alastor saw that, he made no further effort of rescue, and let the water carry him upward, leaving his friend to his rest. He resurfaced with a mighty gasp, his lungs ready to burst, so starved of oxygen. On the way up, he had noticed the growing improvement of the lighting, so now sure enough, the back up he had sent for so long ago had finally rolled into action.

Carrington's booming voice could carry right across the sea to the other side of the globe, "Alastor! Old boy, are you out here?! Speak up now, there's a good fellow!"

Charlus was far more urgent and panicked, "I can't see him! Can't see anything! Get more light!"

Robert McGonagall's highland brogue was unmistakable too, "Aye, Chuck. _Lumos Maxima_!" And like an SOS flare, a huge ball of white light streaked across the sky.

He tread water for a bit, trying to get a line of sight on them, then saw the encroaching shadows whizzing about the air. No wonder the Department had took their time, if they'd been waiting on brooms before coming to grab him. Alastor waved his arms in the air as best as he could without slipping beneath the water line, managing to croak, "Here! Help!"

Silence followed, as they all presumably tried listening out for him again, so he repeated his call, until abruptly, Dorea's voice broke out, "There he is! Charlus!"

But he could see Chuck suddenly floating above him, blotting out the light, firmly clutching his frozen, outstretched hand in his own. "I've got him, Dee!"

Struggling, with the addition of the water his clothes had taken on, Charlus lifted him a few feet further up out the water, before Robert came alongside and pulled his another arm up. Together they managed to fly him, hanging down between them back to shore, Dorea leading the way by the light of her wand, and Peter presumably behind.

Presumably, they had tried to set him down gently, expecting his feet to take his own weight once they landed him on dry land but as they eased their grip, his legs just gave up, buckled and he went clattering to the floor, smashing his face straight off the floor. The pain of landing right on the spot where his face had been slashed open was completely numb, so tired and frozen by his time in the water was he. As everyone else put their feet back on the ground, there was a rush of concern around him.

"Alastor! Come now, old chap! Alastor! Aye wake up, now big fella! He's hurt. His bloody face is split in two, Pete! For god sake! We've got to get him to Saint Mungo's! Stay awake, Alastor! Open your eyes, Al. AL! Keep your eyes open"

All the voice merge together into one, as darkness crept in round him. The strain on him has reached it breaking point, and for their own sake his body and mind are shutting down on him. As he slips away into unconsciousness, he gargles on a choked protest, "D-Do-n't… c-call mmme… Al…"


	14. Post-Mortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: Alphard and Fawcett reveal the aftermath of the Bethlen situation.

** Post-Mortem **

When his senses finally return to him, as they were all surely meant to, the first one that is invoked is a glorious – if remarkable given his last memory being the cold, wet and misery – sensation of blissful comfort, armoured in a soft quilt and sheet, plush pillows which emanate the most consuming warmth to cocoon him. The second sense to return is smell, a gentle wafting of somewhere not too distance of cooking: sausages, if he isn't mistaken, and chicken, potatoes roasting too. A magnificent feast is being prepared. How marvellous. Third sense which arrives if hearing voices, from the same distance as the smell, are talking, muffled, not at all quiet, but neither cheering or arguing. Which is then interrupted by the sudden sound much closer to home of a striking match.

It's the abruptness out of the sound which returns all senses to him, it cuts through the fog and his eyes snap open. He is now fully awake and aware of himself. He's surprised to find himself in his own room, in his own home. From the memories of his embittered duel with Miklós Bethlen, surely he ought to be wrapped and bound in bandages, chained or handcuffed to a bed in Saint Mungo's with a guard of his former colleagues surrounding him. But no, he's in his own home, in his own bed, alone in the room except for Alphard Black, sat in a chair at the foot of his bed, who has a freshly lit cigar entrenched in the corner of his mouth.

When he notices that he's awake, Alphard smiles, blowing out the match and expelling a string of cigar smoke before saying, "Hello, Alastor. Welcome home."

Perhaps more disorientated than he thought he was, he glances around the room and struggled to sit up a little, "Umm, hello…" The covers are packed in tight beneath him, and escaping it is like trying to squeeze free of envelope you've been sealed in, "h-how did I get here?"

Alphard gives a small laugh, watching him wriggle free, then stands to examine his bedroom, which he never been – nor had reason to be – inside of. "We came in couple of – what's that muggle game called? Leapfrogs? Yes," he decides, after a session of pondering, "a couple of leaps over a few humps. After you were dragged out the river, we got you to a Healer on site at the cinema, but after that the Fawcett's arrived – and you were promptly arrested."

"Was I?" he interrupts, thoroughly amused with the notion of being arrested while unconscious, "did I resist? Could they manage to take me alive?"

Alphard laughs, though it sounds as if he's just humouring him, as he looks intently at a group of photos on the wall from their schooldays, "After that you were taken to the holding cells in the Office and force fed a Sleeping Draught and refused medical attention. Until a small, erm… mutiny arose in the Office, and the Minister had to be sent for. When she took control of the situation – after being suitably charmed and informed of the facts of the situation by yours true-and-dashingly handsome – you were released to Saint Mungo's in Charlus' custody. The Healers there managed to lick over your wounds as best they could and added an extra measure of Sleeping Draught to keep you happy. After which, our motley crew assembled to take you back home where Chuck and I put you to bed – not that I volunteered for that, of course."

Across his face he feels the line of a bandage stuck to his face with a kind of salve, and remembers how the blood had flowed from him after Miklós' Severing Charm struck him. A little embarrassed, he pokes it, tries to feel underneath at the line where the scar will form.

Alphard suddenly notices this, his eyes wrenched from the moving, waving figures in the photos, and gleefully says, "Hell, Alastor, you were never the looker of the group."

They both laugh, and then remembering he turns suddenly says, "Edgar. Bones. How is he? What happened?"

"Oh fine, fine," Alfie assures, shrugging, "dragged out the water okay, a bit wetter for wear. Dorea and the Department looked after him, got him straight to Saint Mungo's. Though he is thoroughly ashamed to see you again. As I imagine you must be, going off half-cocked like that with no back up."

Alastor himself shrugged. "Couldn't risk it. Miklós…" he begins, but faulters and can't begin again. "Miklós…"

"One body we could not drag out the river in time." Alfie supplies, at least putting on the sorry sound of his voice for his benefit to not be in-genuine.

Resigned, he murmurs, more to contemplate himself, "I killed him."

"Couldn't be helped, I'm sure he gave you no choice," Alfie says, trying to sooth his conscience. "Don't be ashamed of it, Alastor."

He shakes his head, "He wanted me to kill him."

"Wanted you to?"

"I tried to save him. When the boat went up, I dove back under. But when it came to it, he wanted to die. Wouldn't let me keep him alive." He finishes with a sigh, pulls the covers completely off him now and sits on the edge of the bed. "We were friends once, you remember. But even at the last I couldn't return to that role – right then he needed me to be his enemy, even if he might have wanted me to be a friend."

Alphard snorts, "Your friendship would have been wasted on that man, Alastor. The reports on Mrs Shafiq are certain. Unforgivable: Killing Curse straight to the left temple. Poor woman would have had no idea what hit her. No chance to run."

He sighs again. He'd forgotten about Mrs Shafiq. That redoubtable old woman, who was ten times as invincible in fact at her age as he ever imagined to be when half his own. She had ground up and chewed down the worst that the Muggle and Wizarding worlds could through at her and survived. So what does that say about the evil that Miklós Bethlen and the Knights of Walpurgis are capable of if they killed as if it was barely an afterthought?

"So, what action will Fawcett and the Department take?"

A burst of mocking laughter ripples from Alphard's throat, "Use your head, Alastor. No action at all. Just about everyone in this case is dead, and during his handling of it Laurence Fawcett has sacked or accepted the resignation of some of the Auror Office's finest. Not to mention suffered a complete collapse in the Auror's belief in his leadership and nearly had a full uprising from the ranks. You really expect him to own up that kind of failure? Admit that Auror's only catch Dark Wizards after we fall over their bodies? Minister has already convened an inquiry of the Wizengamot into the whole affair. Officially, Fawcett will be lucky to keep his job; unofficially he'll be lucky to escape time in Azkaban."

"Lovely."

"Yes, well… don't tell him I told you any of that, 'cause he's downstairs. Wants to talk to you."

Pained all of a sudden, and a reflexive hand covers his face, "Merlin…"

* * *

Fawcett shuffles into the room like it's a Cerberus' lair. His hair is a polished and combed further back with Sleekeazy's Hair Potion than Alastor has ever seen it. He carries a bundle of flowers, wrapped in brown paper, and seeing Alastor laid back up in bed, suddenly looks sheepish as with what to do with them.

"Ah," he cautiously croaks, "Hmm? Perhaps I should have left them downstairs with Potter. Umm," He eventually lays them over his legs, like a wreath to the fallen.

The idea seems so real to him that he blurts out, not even thinking, "I'm not dead yet."

Startled, shocked, and seeing perhaps what a foolish gift flowers are, Fawcett blurts out, "N-no, of… of course not." Though he makes no effort to take back the flowers. "But you have obviously been through it, these past few days. Now," he grandly and presumptuously takes a seat where Alphard once sat, "my old, good friend, let's have all this bad business out of the road first. So far, Alastor, few people know the real facts about what's happened tonight, or this case generally. Quite fortunate, as the Minister agrees. The regular Magical Law Enforcement Patrolmen and their officers have agreed and ordered to bite their tongues for the time being, and keep away from the _Prophet_ and the like. Now, this man of yours, Bones, can he be trusted too?"

His scarred face, darkens his scowl, at this man – this worm, trying to slither his way out this mess he's made and further up the greasy pole. 'This man of mine'. It was you who sent him to me. But now that he's landed you in the shit by being honest, decent and good at his job, you have disowned him. He says none of this of course, instead pleasantly nods.

The lack of verbal response given Fawcett pause, his brow furrows, his face set to worry about how to proceed. Whether or not it's worth it. "Sorry, Alastor, you're obviously tired." He starts getting up to move, but he cuts across him, the sudden two-way path of this conversation forces him to resist the sudden impulse to leave.

"I'll write up a full report given time, sir." He says amiably, "but in the mean time the facts of these have to be know: Hector Shafiq was not a spy or traitor. Miklós Bethlen he knew from a conference on the Continent. His wife was the spy, she and Bethlen held Shafiq under the Imperius Curse."

Obviously, these are the first time Fawcett has heard these facts, and the shame of it compels him again to run, "Please, Alastor…" but he rolls right over the objections, just carries on speaking.

"After sometime however, Shafiq began to resist the curse. In the end he wrote the letter to the Department implicating himself as a Dark Wizard to draw suspicion onto her."

"Denounced himself?"

"I am certain of that. By the time he and I met, the spell was broken completely."

"Bizarre," Fawcett utters, almost incapable of acknowledging self-sacrifice as a sensible method or noble thing. Then the notion to flee, seems to seize him for a moment, but then he back down again, "Now, something more pleasant. We've erm… been kicking around the idea of a new section within the Auror Office. A sort of foreign affairs business, collaborating with sister offices and departments in other Ministries and going after foreign dark wizards in other countries. I was rather hoping that you… might, possibly take the position of leading it." He opens his mouth to reply, but he's prompted by Fawcett leaning, trying to reassure him, "You would receive the appropriate promotion, increase in station and salary of course, even pick and choose who you wanted to join. Personnel are up to the hilt with me on this, and I'm sure the Minister would be too…"

Ah so now this is it, the real reason. Because your career could well now be in my hands, if I accept to continue to serve under you, we both seem cosy and as if by gones are by gones. If that were so, or looked so, then you could claim the rest of the Department has no grievance with how you treated me, maybe even that you were in on some elaborate masterplan the whole time.

"I'm sorry, sir, but no."

He actually has the gall to grab him, is almost on his knees pleading. "Alastor, I know in heat of passion you offered and wrote me your resignation. But you can't expect you to take it seriously."

"I wish you would," he grunts, not that Fawcett actually believes he has any malicious intent by it, "as you say I've been through it. If I accepted now, it would be unwise."

That nugget of logic seeps through at least, and he releases his grip, eases back onto the chair, "Think about it," he rises, now fully intent of fleeing, "Take the weekend." He has a hand on the door when something pulls him back in, "Oh, umm, Charlus," he retrieves a letter form his sleeve, "said give this to you. It came by owl just after I arrived."

He takes letter from his hand. Letters: he had about done with them by this point, "Thank you, sir. And for the flowers."

When the door is closed, Alastor puffs all the air out of him, and out loud says, "What a load of cock and bull." As his former boss' footsteps can be heard downstairs. They'd hang him if there was justice in the world. Without thinking or a look at the envelope his thumb breaks it open at the wax seal and he's greeted by familiar, beautifully, graceful handwriting, sliding down the page, letters going from northeast across and southwest. That familiarity to it is enough to shock him, and so startled he follows his eyes to very bottom where it is signed with a kiss _Druella_.


	15. Absence Makes the Nose Grow Longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: Alastor contemplates the future of past love and the day's Quidditch fixtures.

**Absence Makes the Nose Grow Longer**

_My ever beloved Alastor,_

_I am writing you this letter in order to propose an offer. One which no man of respectable, absolute morals neither would, nor could accept. I have left my husband and I want to come back to you. Until the end of next month I will be in New York, staying at the Muggle 'Roosevelt Hotel'. Let me know, or come and visit._

_Yours, in faith and love, always_

_Druella Rosier_

* * *

Alastor folded the letter up, and discarded it, his body so wracked with disbelief that he could not even have the letter near him in his moment of contemplation. Then it passed, and the Auror within him needed to verify the source of information. He picked the letter, and considered every article of the piece of paper except the words written on it. Sure enough it was real muggle paper, not any kind of wizarding parchment. And in the corner it had a kind of odd hallmark in the corner, printed into the very paper, which he supposed to be some kind of maker's mark.

Finally, he swallowed hard, and took the plunge of reading the letter again. ' _No man of respectable, absolute morals neither would, nor could accept_ '. So you no longer have any kind of respectable friends, and would turn to me. Or the kind of trouble she was in was one where she needed a hand that would neither judge or reject her, the kind of man who knew her and knew life's shades of grey. ' _Let me know_ '. Had the world which you had been entrapped in so bored you, and is the only relief you can think of to come and help shatter mine all over again? Except: ' _Or_ _come_ _and_ _visit_ '. There was that daring, playful edge to that. The kind she deployed as a last resort to have him come and reach out, which he never once chosen or been able to refuse. And she had laid all out, that she had left the mighty Cygnus Black, and wanted him. Him Alastor, Alastor Moody, not Auror Moody, not anyone, but her ever beloved Alastor. It wasn't like her to admit the truth so freely, but that couldn't have been entirely true then. Druella rarely told the truth when a lie would do, or if it couldn't the she would shave off the edges of the truth to present a simpler, cleaner vision. That was the difference between the Druella of his imagination and her true self: his imagination made her speak clear and honest, because he'd neither her wit, cunning, or patience to twist words and the world to any way other than he could see it. Here he could guess the omission: the child she'd had with dear Cygnus. Had she brought it with her to New York, in terror of the idea of another ruthless, bigoted Black stomping around the place? Or had she been so desperate to escape that she left her child behind, and the guilt now eating up at her?

He poked at the bandages that covered his cheek. How long might she wait? If in fact, he did want to go. Frustrated with the conflicting ideas, pros and cons, all buzzing round his head, Alastor sighed and pushed them all out his head. He would mull it over, after all there were still things that needed addressing.

Swinging his legs off the bed, he made the decision to change out the filthy clothes that Saint Mungo's had neglected to change him out of, and at last venture downstairs to here the music of his friends and comrades whom he had travelled this journey with. Except when he tried to stand up, the pressure on his foot turned to screaming agony, and he bowled back over clutching the unmistakable bandage over his sprained foot. Must be he had twisted it when they pulled him from the river, he guessed, rubbing and ease the pain, assuring his foot that he wouldn't so stupid as to do that again.

With magic, the changing went much easier, but bound to a bed it was nevertheless a pain. He settled on a simple look, merely a shirt and trousers, because those drawers were the closest within wand-reach, and forewent a belt to hold them up, merely a set of braces that hung on the peg on the pack of the door with his dressing gown. To assure everyone he was still recovering, and not pushing himself after such a miserable fight to the death, he also had the dressing gown round his shoulders and did without any footwear except a sock he magically shrank down over his bad leg – knowing the tightness would help the healing – and transfigured a spare belt into a cane, to help his movement while his foot was still dodgy.

It felt like he'd taken an hour to get across his landing, and was sure somebody might come sniffing after him soon, and with a cane and bad foot, navigating the easiest placement of his feet on the stairs was no less difficult, painful or time consuming. Typically, he was heard coming down the stairs before he reached the bottom, and Charlus stepped out the kitchen to greet him.

His wasn't a particularly pleasant greeting, but for Chuck's smile, "You should be in bed."

He snorted, easing down to his final stretch of narrow stair, "I've had worse. Spent enough time dodging your bludgers."

A short laugh, and they're stood before one another at last on even ground, they both share a slightly sober look, before Charlus has a hand outstretched. Fortunately, he's thought it through, and there is no dancing around with cane. They shake a firm once, then his friend's other arm comes round and they share a sort of half hug.

"Stubborn sod," Charlus laments, "and too clever for your own good. Should have waited for help. Dividing forces, going in with too few men. That kind of reckless thinking will get you killed."

They break off, each rubs their nose, and sniffs. Shrugging, he tells it true, "Well once of us had to be the stupid one. And I'd rather not have to tell Dorea if you ever bought it."

Charlus keeps an arm round him, smiling directs him to his own kitchen, "Grim bastard."

Everyone else is spread out over the room, so he gives a general wave of greeting with his cane, hand on the door to hold himself up, before folding into the nearest chair around his tiny table, and pulling the stretched out copy of the _Daily Prophet_ for his examination. He can feel the eyes on him, the air of pride coming from some and disbelief from others. He sniffs, before plainly saying, "Morin'." Then remarking, as if it's the most interesting thing to happen recently, "Lovely stuff, Portree smashed the Cannons. Oh, and looks like the United gave the Magpies a pounding – better luck next time, Bobby, eh?"

He carries on starring, taking in the state of the latest Quidditch fixtures and current state of the League Table, before the temptation to look becomes too much. First he flicks his eyes to Bob McGonagall sat almost opposite, him pipe smouldering as it hung loose barely held in his slacked, gaping jaw. Then he took in Dorea, sat on the only other chair on his right, eyes beaming, finger over her mouth as if it's the only thing capable of containing the explosive laughter set to rip forth from her Cheshire cat grin. After that he looks into the kitchen, where Carrington was looming carefully over a pan on his tiny hob, now is starring like it's the first time seeing a ghost before, while Edgar Bones looks like an askew cyclops, with an icepack over one eye, presumably covering a wound from his encounter with their dead enemy. Alphard is out of his sight, leaning on the window behind him, but when he angles his head, sure enough he can glimpse the broad, wolfish grin through the cigar smoke.

"Does that mean Pride have gone to first yet?" Alfie asked, himself grinning to supress his laugh and urgently having to press his cheek against the kitchen window to hold the waves in.

"Umm…" Alastor said, sniggering as he grandly flapped the paper out before him as if to try and better spread out the ink to see, and then pulled it back right underneath his noes to read it, and gesticulating with his finger for extra precision. "Noooo, lucky you, Alfie: Puddlemere are still clear by 1 point."

Then the whole tension of the situation becomes too much, and Alphard starts a squeak laugh, as the breath escapes his mouth like air from a punctured balloon. The squeak sends the dominos tumbling, as Dorea creases at the sound, and he barks a laugh at the sight of her face, and soon everyone is laughing, whether it be he and Charlus' full body ones, as Chuck has to hold himself on his shoulder and he in turn has to lean on his cane to stop himself sliding onto the floor, or Bob's strained chuckling, hand on his brow at the shame and biting damned hard down on his pipe with a smoker's typical wheeze.

They all gather round to share and reflect on their shared ordeal, each in turn gives their experience that night over a bottle of purely medicinal firewhisky. Through the whole night they go, every which way, forwards, backwards, side to side, north to south, east to west, clockwise and back.

"Well," Charlus says, as they round up events for the last time, and pouring out the last share of whisky. "It all might not have gone to plan, but I'd say enough good will come from our mistakes. Fawcett will go, so will that shaved monkey he had heading the Office, and we'll get a proper chief in."

"Aye," Bobby says, a smile curled round the rim of his glass, "maybe you'll get one clever enough to take Alfie's resignation this time."

A soft cry of 'boo' goes up, but Alphard himself leans across the table with his glass to toast Robert, "Amen to that, your Grace." Then the boo is upturned by another roar of laughter.

They go on like that, celebrating enjoying one another's revelry, the joy and good humour that drew them all together at school on has a boomerang effect ever since. Eventually, they substitute whisky for strong tea, and after Carrington and Black venture into town for some supplies, they eat well on a myriad of sandwiches and begin charming the various combinations of smoke into shapes and figures that dance in the air for their further amusements,

At one point, Dorea catches his gaze and says, "Your eyes are twinkling, Alastor. You not sitting on anymore secrets."

"Oh, merely my repressed tears, Dee. For without your face to look at, I should weep."

They chuckle, doubly so at the pretend look of offence on Charlus' face, and the way he turns the back of his hand to his forehead and says, "Scoundrel."

Recovering, snuggling closer to her other half, she goes on, "I think not, Alastor. Something else is nibbling at you, and not merely the fine company you've given your house to today. Tell us what you have scurried away in that thickhead of yours."

"Any more, mysterious owls sent by dead men, Mister Moody?" Bones says, trying to rap his head around the first events which sat this whole thing in motion.

"Well, I can't say what the owl was for, exactly. Maybe that was his excuse, the owl com in late in the morning and give him a reason to Mrs Shafiq to get away and meet me like he asked."

Bones' nods sagely.

"That wife," Carrington then adds, tutting severely, as if she were an errant child, "What in creation drove her to shack up with beasts like the Knights of Walpurgis? You wonder she was mad, Muggle-born like that with those people."

"Maybe," he conceded, "But I don't think she saw the world like that, in categories. She was, I think, a woman who couldn't stand a world of such cruelty. Wanted one free of persecution, but to her Muggles were the root of all that."

Darkly, Alphard added, "Just like Miklós Bethlen." But Alastor just sighed.

"I can't expect you all to understand Miklós. You never knew him as I did. He wanted to live a free life as an equal man – yet to achieve that world became a murderer and went to the darkest place a man could go. And that I think tortured him, on the inside. Was why he was so desperate for release. After what happened to him in Berlin, I think there was always some tether holding onto sanity. Because he couldn't break after trying so hard, he had to have it all to end."

"But," offered Robert, "He could have repented, come in alive and helped us. Given us the knowledge to really stick it to these Knights, cause Merlin knows they're still out there. And baying for blood I should think."

He holds his tongue after that, merely shrugs off Bob's question. Of course he hasn't told them of Miklós' confession as to who his Master was, of his theory on Tom Riddle and his capabilities and probable overlordship of the Knights. And he won't, because there is someone who he needs to see first, before Druella.

Yet Charlus brings them back to more pressing matters. "Are you really gone and retired from the Department, Alphard?"

"Hmmm," he pauses to light another cigar and consider the fact, "perhaps not. Though after this business, I'd say I'm due an extended holiday – maybe somewhere new… What about you, Alastor?"

"Me?" then it dawns on him, the sudden openness of his future. Or lack of it depending how optimistic you are. "I have no idea… suppose that will be up to the Wizengamot with this tribunal whether I can come back at all. May even be I change my mind, or it gets change for me?"

"What does that mean?" Dorea asks, and he just shrugs.

Evermore curious at the idea of unemployed Alastor Moody, Carrington leans across to flick an annoying finger at his forehead, "But, old boy, what will become of all that super devilish, clever boots, instincts in that dome of yours? Surely if you go barking and start talking to spiders like Alphard, I shall never speak to you again."

Again he shrugs, tapping the copy of the _Prophet_ , "Teach? I hear Hogwarts has a new opening." To which they all burst out laughing.

Charlus rolls his eyes especially hard, and his voice dripping with scepticism, " _Professor_ Alastor Moody. Good Lord, I wouldn't let my kids go to that school."

"Well bugger you." He says, scowling, then turns, "Robert, go gets me quill and parchment, I'm writing to Dumbledore."

Obliging as to help him fulfil his unspoken reason to have a cover story to see Dumbledore, Robert grumbles, "Things you'll do to prove a point."

"Anyway," Alphard grunts, drawing them all back, and opening up the gossiper in himself, "speaking of kids, I hear your brother is expecting a new Potter on the way, Charlus."

"Yep, Fleamont is chuffed as a newt…"

With that, Robert sat back down, handing over the scrounged blank parchment and an inked quill to Alastor, who immediately drafted his cover story for a meeting with Albus Dumbledore.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: After the final conclusion, Alastor ties up the loose ends in England and arrives in America to claim a new future.

**Epilogue**

_1_ _st_ _December, 1959_

Alastor didn't know what to think as he reached the half way point of his walk, and his feet finally touched the cobblestones' of the bridge that gave entry to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Certainly, he knew his thoughts in the moments before he set his feet on solid stone. Mainly it was why in the name Merlin had they decided to build the train station all that way in the arse end of Hogsmeade and make it such a god bloody awful long way away from the Castle. He also thought that his general demeanour had been soured by his continued reliance on his cane for his foot. While around the house he was now back to being able to get around without it, but travelling a fairly long way with a fair amount of walking and no reliable place to sit down was more than a few steps too far.

But remarkably, as soon as his feet were officially on Castle stones, he was almost paralysed by the sense of nostalgia, as his youth practically began to radiate from the rock itself into him. It caught him off guard almost, and forced him to take it all back in. The glorious towers hanging above him, the marvellous view as the Grounds stretched out onto the Black Lake, and heavy snowfall that blanketed everything. It was enough to make him shiver beneath his familiar overcoat, and turned the flanks of his collar up to help shield with from the feeling, before continuing his walk for his opportunity to catch words with the Headmaster.

It was before midday, and a quiet that Alastor had never known had seemingly smothered the Castle, as he supposed both classes and the weather had the students and staff alike all driven inside. Nevertheless, that somewhat added to his sense of nostalgia as he drew closer to the Castle and the shadows of his youth all but beckoning him to join them. They seemed worst of all as he wrapped his cane on the door of the Entrance Hall, expecting as per Dumbledore's instructions, for his chaperone to come along and lead him to the Headmaster's Office.

And he was not disappointed, with the timely arrival of his chaperone, though the sight of her did nothing to strangle the sense of his nostalgia as she opened cracked open the door to allow him entry. "Mister Moody," she said, in the same curt voice she had them all in terror of as a prefect.

He grinned his most toothy, "Minerva."

She rolled her eyes at his remark, "You're late."

Surely it was impossible for her to have remained almost exactly the same as she had been in school, nor to still be treating him as though he was just another one of her brother's band of trouble makers. Fair enough, if that was what she wanted, he would play the part for her benefit, "Am I?" he said, pulling out his fob watch to confirm her analysis, "So I am. Well sorry. As you can see, Minny," he tapped his cane off the floor to draw her attention to it, and winking as her lips tightened and what he called her, "I'm suffering for a wound suffered in the line of duty: not quite as mobile as I would be."

"Mmm." Was the only further response she had to him, before she about turned and led him inside.

As they begin to stroll through the castle and he takes unto account the familiar corridors that dominated his childhood, he feels a growing sense of disappointment. The way the stones continue to call and pull at his ancient memories to the surface and make him glad to be back here, there seems to be know mutual longing from Hogwarts itself: familiar portraits do not meet his eye and wave to him as they once did; suits of armour he had once bewitched to salute him as he walked pass them fail to repeat their courtesy; and perhaps most stinging of all, when his former house ghost glides reverently passed himself and Professor McGonagall he is acknowledged as less than an afterthought.

"Place seems different than when I was last here," he says absentmindedly, "just can't put my finger on what."

Minerva now seems more willing to be drawn into conversation, now his teasing tone of voice has dropped. She suggests to him, "Perhaps it's just you who has changed, Mister Moody."

"Oh certainly I've changed. Mostly for the better, I should hope. When I left here I was bitter, angry, fighting the whole world as I could."

Dryly, she ponders, "And you have changed how, exactly?"

He laughs, and Minerva McGonagall practically vibrates with humour. That's progress, he thinks, if not change. When they first met, she was already a prefect, himself a first year acting far too big for his boots, who seemed hell bent on dragging her youngest brother through the mire. While that final bit may still too great a nugget of truth for him to admit to her, it's nice to see that they can speak amiably.

"I suppose," he carries on saying, "I found something worth fighting. And maybe now I'm wiser in years, I worry at the costs of being so angry for so long."

Though she does not face him, he can hear the startled raise of her eyebrow, "Now that hardly sounds like the same Alastor Moody the _Prophet_ has currently been full of."

Instinctively, he snorts, "Shouldn't believe everything in that filthy rag."

"Nor do I."

"Good," a pause and easy quiet gradually descends as they move off the Grand Staircase and into the corridor of the Headmaster's Tower. But then Alastor feels the need to blurt out, "What made you leave?!"

She stops, and turns to look at him with the familiar, icy glair, "Leave?"

"Well, umm," he fumbles his words and stumbles over his own mouth to contemplate the idea. "The Ministry, I mean. I-it's just, I remember after you left this place you were as good as on your way to climb high. Could've been an Auror too, if you wanted – prefect, and with your grades and all. Then the last I hear of you from Robert was you as good as said 'sod that' and shacked up here. I just… wonder what made you leave."

He expects her to ignore him, turn round and carry on walking as if he never said anything; at the least he expects her to tell him 'none of your business' and then moving away; what he does not expect, and what absolutely catches him the other way, is for her to answer him.

"Personal reasons."

Albeit, not much of an answer, but she at least goes on to elaborate a little. "Truthfully, I had made my mind up to leave long before I did. The people there, I'm sure you know the kind, I couldn't stand them. And my work didn't fulfil me – Hogwarts had a vacancy, and needed my help. I've done more good here than fighting tooth and claw up the Ministry."

He doesn't respond initially. Part of him doesn't entirely know what made jump with the outburst, but the fact is all he has done is run rings round himself contemplating his future the past week. His reinstatement as an Auror is far from certain, but even if it was he can say for sure whether he would go back or not. True, he would be needed. He is now the Office's leading expert on the Knights of Walpurgis, but what does that mean? When everyone round a corner, in every other cubicle could be sympathetic to them, what would use would he be? If the worst should come, he would spend more time fighting his own side than the Knights, and it would be a cloak and dagger war – the kind of combat he doesn't have stomach or patience for. And then there is the factor of Druella to consider. If she came back to England with him, on that remote possibility, then would it be right for him to drag her into his enemy's line of sight, put her at risk?

"And what if you could have done good work at the Ministry?" He asks Minerva, not at all on his own behalf.

"Well… I would have sought advice." She replies, contemplating slowly.

"Who?"

Quickly, she shrugs, and then signalling the end of the conversation, Minerva turns and continues her walk to the Headmaster's Office. The hideous, stone gargoyle that guards the entrance has grown no more attractive to the eye since the lats time he saw the beast. It also seems surprisingly smaller than recalled it, despite the fact he can't have grown less than an inch, including the heels on his boots.

Professor McGonagall gestures to it, opening her mouth, but he raises a hand, grinning as he reminds her, "I remember how it works."

Sardonically, she notes, "Of course you do."

"Love to Robert, if you see him before I do," he offers, as he stands on the space next to the gargoyle. She nods and murmurs the password which elevates one out of the other's view. He rests an elbow on the stone animals head, telling it, "Never thought I'd see her again."

"I could say the same about you," it replied.

* * *

Despite the change in ownership to Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster's Office was as awe-inspiring, articulate in its decoration and as able to arouse the impressing air of authority on Alastor as it was in Armando Dippet's duration. Of course a collection of items that had not been there now turned up, yet he still recognized them from Dumbledore's Office from when he was still merely teaching Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House. The usual array of instruments billowing out puffs of smoke into the air, familiar books that were ticker than Alastor was wide, and finally, the familiar, firey-red, phoenix, Fawkes. The bird must have recently burned itself up, Alastor noted, as the usual magnificent beast with more pride and grace than a swan when seated on his perch was merely a small, tufty creature, more like a chicken or a baby parrot, whose wings were still not strong enough to carry him from the ashes of his former self back to his perch, and instead strutted around, pecking at his ashes.

There was also, of course, the man himself: Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was merely himself: immortal and perpetual in his appearance as he always had been since Alastor had known the Professor. Silver hair hidden beneath a traditional pointed wizard's hat, and stretched around into the magnificently long and shiny beard that fell bellow his waist. The crooked nose that arched downward and remained guarded by the halfmoon spectacles that magnified the penetrating, baby, blue eyes that sparked a glimmer of surprised when the ancient wizard clapped his eyes on him.

He rose from his desk, stretching his arms wide in welcome, "Alastor Moody," he said, jovial, shuffling around the desk to actually shake hands and take in the changes that life and its natural and unnatural side effects that had been inflicted on his former student in the years that had divided their last meeting.

Alastor stepped further into the office, to lessen the distance between them, and it was only then that he felt the bundle of nerves in the pit of his stomach catch fire and start burning a chant of nervousness that he hardly knew in his life, except when he came face to face with Albus Dumbledore in his office. There was also the added fuel now that he was here on false pretences, and Alastor could feel the sudden moistening of his palms as he grabbed the Professor Dumbledore's outstretched hand.

"It is good to see you again, Alastor. It has been sometime."

"Professor," he merely grunted in return, unsure of what else to say, "Been a while."

Dumbledore smiled, as if embarrassed, then laid his other hand on over Alastor's and squeezed. "Please, Alastor," he said shyly, "I am no longer your teacher. Feel free to call me 'Albus'." And released his hands of Alastor's.

"Yes, Professor."

He blinked, his mind suddenly blank of what else to say. It was plain for Dumbledore to see, and so he tilted his head up a little his eyes looking down at Alastor along his long nose, and down his glasses, as if to better examine the sudden problem he had found in Alastor's face. Then he turned away, gesturing to Alastor the seat across from his desk, while shuffling back around to his own much grander chair.

"I must say, I am glad and reassured to speak with you again. See you also, though you look somewhat worse for weather than our last conversation – if I might say." Dumbledore's tone of voice was much more languid, than the excitable one he'd spoken with when he first saw Alastor cross his threshold. Trying, he suspected, to make him more comfortable, and so their conversation flow easier.

"Yeah, well… comes with the job," he said, relieved to take all pressure off of his foot and to put aside his walking stick. "Not that it's likely to be my job for much longer."

"Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Is there any particular reason?"

Perhaps more embittered and rude than he should do, Alastor instinctively, sniggered, "Oh, come off it, Dumbledore. You can't have not seen the Prophet. And you're on the Wizengamot. Should think you know exactly I'm facing the sack."

"Ah, you mean, your recent involvement into the Investigation of Hector Shafiq," The Headmaster looked puzzled for a moment, he shrugged and tilted his head, "While I cannot speak for what the Daily Prophet writes about you – not an avid reader of it – I believe I can speak for the Wizengamot: and as far as the majority of its members are concerned you acted honourably, with great courage and determination above that expected for your office. There is a rumour that the new Minister for Magic is putting you in for the Order of Merlin."

"Really?"

Dumbledore nodded reassuringly, "Oh yes, Second Class by all accounts."

Alastor slumped back in his chair, wide-eyed put a hand to his chin and thought seriously, while wishing he'd done a better job of shaving before he'd turned up. Warily, he dared to ask, "Who will be the new Head of D.M.L.E? And the Aurors?"

This time Professor Dumbledore simply shrugged, "Of that I cannot tell you. A decision has yet to be named on either account. Although you may be glad to hear I've heard your friend, Charlus Potter, mentioned…"

A tear of laughter ripped from his throat. "Oh Merlin, no." He groaned, slapping his head, "The power will go to his head in a week!"

Dumbledore joined him in the chuckle before saying, "Nevertheless, I therefore think I can tell you that there is little danger of you being relieved your duties as an Auror. I shall of course entirely understand then if this fact changes your desire for a position at this School. And should my calculations be totally erroneous or you reconsider in the future, then I shall likewise be glad to take you on as a teacher."

"Ah." Alastor said, flatly. His hand slid down his face to scratch at his new scar. "Well frankly, Professor, I never intended to apply for a job. I just needed an excuse to come talk to you in private, confidentially." Dumbledore's face was an blank as fresh parchment, and with a lack of encouragement, Alastor simply pressed on with the addition, "It's to do with this busines I've been wrapped up in and things… things which you won't have heard and you probably won't do unless they're from me… because I haven't told anyone, not even written down, not filed away somewhere, not told Charlus, or Alphard or Dorea. Haven't even said them out loud, because _you_ , Professor, are the only man I trust to and whom it might seriously concern.

A white whisper of an eyebrow raise, Dumbledore merely said, "Go on then, if you please, Alastor."

Alastor sighed and leant forward, rubbing both hands across his face and pressing them into his forehead, as if to try and help iron out his thoughts. "You'll obviously know about this group in Germany – call themselves the Knights of Walpurgis?"

Dumbledore nodded.

"And you'll know that Miklós Bethlen was a member, or at least somehow involved with them, and it was he who was responsible for the deaths of Hector Shafiq and his wife."

Again, the Professor nodded.

"Well while I was trying to bring him down, Bethlen told me who the leader of the Knights was… is. Sir…" Alastor raised his head up, and stared dead straight into Dumbledore's languid, waiting eyes, "Professor he said, their leader is Tom Riddle."

There was none of the enormous signs of great surprise that Alastor had expected to see in the Professor's face. He merely raised a second eyebrow to match its height with the one he had originally raised, and softly murmured, "Tom Riddle…"

Alastor nodded, slightly, "Yep… although," he hastened to add, "by all accounts he's not calling himself that anymore. He's calling… calling himself…" He fumbled with his memory about, trying to root around in his own skull for the name that he had since dropped out of it, "calling…"

"Voldemort," Dumbledore prompted, and Alastor's eyes snapped wide as he starred at the Headmaster in a sudden eureka moment.

"That's it!" But then he stumbled over the realization, furrowed his brow into a scowl and growled, "You know."

At the change of his mood with a snap of his fingers, Dumbledore suddenly rose out into himself. His face changed from resignation to a softer conciliatory appearance, and looked with an assuring face to Alastor, offering a, "By no means. Well…" and then he turned decidedly more sheepish in his expression as he further considered the implication of the revelation, "I knew of this Lord Voldemort, and that he was the leader of these Knights of Walpurgis."

"But as for Tom Riddle?"

Sharply, the elderly wizard snapped him down, "As for Tom Riddle, Alastor. I only ever took you at your word that he died when you were off together on your travels together. Perhaps maybe I should not have been so trusting of you, Alastor, hmm?"

Suddenly enraged, Alastor rose in a flash to take his feet before the Professor's desk, but at the awkward pressure on his foot he gushed a hiss of pain from his throat and fell back down on his rump in the chair. Nevertheless with eyes flashing he barked at Dumbledore, "Then perhaps you should have had someone else do your own damn, dirty work!" And folded into himself a little, massaging his bad leg, and not daring to see the expression on the older man's warn out face.

He heard, rather than saw, Dumbledore's pained sigh, and from the corner of his eye saw him stand, shuffle round his desk and put his back to him, facing the phoenix he so treasured – the bird cooed and clucked appreciatively at the Headmaster's reassuring hand petting him. It flapped, squawked and jumped, testing its wings trying to see whether it could achieve flight with its master's encouragement. Despite its bets efforts it could not, and flopped straight down onto the desk, shook itself out and ruffled its feathers, before stamping across the fresh surface, kicking up parchment and pushing out of its way various offending objects that were already in a jumbled scatter about the Dumbledore's workstation.

"Forgive me, Alastor," he said eventually, "that was unkind of me."

In reply, he merely grunted, "Yeah, well… not your fault." Then he considered, after a pause, admitting, "And maybe you would have been better off. When I think back on it, I made mistakes, maybe too young, too angry for what you needed me to do. Maybe Riddle knew that, manipulated me in to doing what he wanted, maybe I let him. I dunno. Probably you _were_ wrong to trust me then." He's rambling, but Dumbledore can wade himself through the words for his meaning, and at the very least appreciated the effort. The old man turned around and smiled, and he sheepishly smiled in returned, then stood gripping his walking aid.

"Well, that's about it. All I came to say, hope you'll do something with it."

Dumbledore shrugged, "I shall certainly think on it, Alastor."

He nodded, "Fair enough. If you decided to do something about these Knights, call on me. This time you can fully count on me. We hate these bastards as much as each other, we both know what they're capable of, and we both know that its going to be plenty ugly to stop them – the kind of people like me and you are the best chance we have to stop them. It won't be pretty work, but nor are we, and it'll be better than the alternative. So when you need me, I'm your man. Remember that."

His former teacher's face formed a frown, before grimly nodding, then he came forward, arm outstretched showing him the way out. "I'll bare that in mind, Alastor." He said, snapping his fingers which gently opened the door for him, only to lay a hand on his arm and stop him for a final word, "Where will you go for now?"

Alastor held his breath a moment, before deciding to admit the truth. "America," he said slowly, "Tonight, I'm booked in for the a Portkey to New York. I don't know how long I'll be there for. I still have to come back to the Ministry for the tribunal in the New Year, I know that. Expect I'll see you there."

The Professor nodded kindly, "Yes, and you may rely on my support." Then removed his hand, and sent the guardian staircase moving again as soon as Alastor set foot on it.

"Thanks," Alastor said, the last word that would go between them as far as the future could see.

* * *

America was not what he had envisaged. Nor was New York, for that matter. Muggle or wizard, the place was a decided down turn compared to what was on offer in Europe or Britain. From the top down it was filthy. In terms of weather it was palpably wetter, which from a Scot like him was saying something. Snow was piled high on street corners and on the side of roads, but from the sky a torrent of rain poured down and damp wind cut down at everything, and snow turned into a sludge-like sludge that ran down the roads and pavement, invading shoes and hold socks hostage to trench foot.

The people were no less glamourous.

Upon his arrival, small brown suitcase in hand, Alastor was bombard with fully loaded battery of bureaucratic MACUSA workers, who in turn had each an elf with a wheel-barrow full of paperwork. They all but mugged him, barrelled him to one side and accosted him about everything from his purpose to personality, treating like some out of place vagrant for daring to venture to their side of the Atlantic. Rapidly tiring of this, Alastor told them all in turn to fuck off, and after a fumble with the pocket in the lining of his coat, waved his Auror badge in front of them, which seemed to nullify any protests they might have had to his manner. It may have been slightly illegal, being as he was officially relieved of duty, but nevertheless a stint in Azkaban was preferable to being smothered in American parchment. The Muggles weren't so bad, in the sense that they all seemed to act as they were the only person in existence, ramming the streets and barging passed and through anyone that failed to walk faster than themselves, or firing off their car horns at anyone crossing the road as if they were being paid for the privilege of their action.

Despite the warm welcome, Alastor found his destination of Druella's hotel after a short consultation of a Muggle tourist map. Its interior was definitive improvement on its exterior. Still it was affirmably American in its own American way, full of American Americanisms. And the Muggles had already decorated it for Christmas, less grandly than wizards were capable of, yet no less endearing, and no less lacking in baubles and tinsel.

He made little of himself as he entered the reception, asked for a room, which they were happy to give as he placed his wad of money on the desk, and discreetly asked about Dru. They gave him her room number after an extra slip of money, then he took his key and went to his own room.

Once there he placed his suitcase on the bed, took out his wand, and waved it across the breadth of the case. The lock snapped open, and like a burst damn, its contents flew around the room in an order formation, opening draws and refolding themselves inside, opening wardrobes and fitting themselves to the coat hangers inside. His shaving bag zipped through to the bathroom and unpacked itself of his razor, aftershave and the rest.

All that was left was his finest suit: a gift he'd had from Alphard years ago, and as a composite was made from many a thing that were all highly illegal, but the craftsmanship nevertheless shone through, which was why Alastor rarely wore it; a shirt threaded together from silk of acromantula webs, a jacket made from Chimera skin that had cufflinks and buttons from the tail of a Horned Snake and Wampus hide for the lining, with trousers from the back of a Griffin. It was a deep, golden brown in colour, with fur down the lapel, and he add pieces of his own: a belt, that was his grandfather's, made from leather taken from a dragon, and the buckle a shimmering scale of the same Antipodean Opaleye, which reflected a dazzle of colours when it caught the light; and a tie which had Occamy feathers, threaded into it which formed a shiny, dark azure strip down the front of the shirt.

After checking the time, Alastor bathed and folded himself into the suit as best as he could, keen not so ruffle the smoothness that had been pressed into the shirt and trousers. He didn't dare look in the mirror, knowing that fresh scar that slashed its way across the best part of his face couldn't be hidden by any fine suit, and remembering an old muggle saying about faeces and polish. Still it was about as good as he was liable to look. He checked his fob watch for the time, and decided that three o'clock was as good a time as any and with Druella's room number in mind, set off out his room in search of it.

He refused to entertain the thought of seeking extra strength from a bottle, and made a point to try and push the worst of his shaggy hair behind his ears, suddenly conscience of the fact his hands were sweaty and his hair was in desperate need of cutting as he found the right number nailed to the right door. On the balls of his feet, he rocked back and forth, as if trying to build moment to push his hand forward and knock on the door. Then he shied away from it, and consulted his watch once more. It was 5 past, and the thought struck him that she might be out, so figuring he had nothing to lose, just went for it, and wrapped his knuckle on the door.

Behind the door, he could hear the cautious scuffle, as the occupant presumably fumbled with the lock, or examine him through the peephole. Eventually, it opened slow to reveal Druella Rosier, Black as she presumably still was. Alastor felt a breath stall in his throat at the sight of her: her magnetic beauty had gone unchanged, dark, long flaxen spilling over her shoulder, and a loose band of it falling across her heavy, rounded eyes from which she looked up at him, with a coy, knowing smile.

"Alastor," she said practically rolling her eyes as the words came off her tongue, as if he were an errant child, or a dog that gotten too excitable but retained its endearing nature.

"Dru," he murmured, and dipped his head, suddenly ashamed a the growing pinkness he could feel in his cheek.

Then she came at him, arms outstretched, and hugged him around the waist. He returned it, awkwardly shifting to place his hands on the small of her back, his eyes closed and lost in the memory of her smell, her feel, her touch. Holding her close to him and squeezing.

"I have missed you," she said, muffled into his chest, resting her head on the comfort of his suit. Her hands drew a circle on his back, "I like the suit."

All he could manage was a grunt. The was too much he wanted to, too much that he couldn't say, and needed to say, and didn't know how to say, didn't if he could or whether he should. So he held his tongue, and enjoyed the moment.

After a while, Druella drew back her head from his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek, where for the first time she must have seen the line that had been stretched into his face for him, and the walking that had gone clattering to the ground as he embraced her. She touched the scar, her eyes imploring with questions, to which he merely shrugged, before turning a grin to her.

"Sorry that your toad has gotten a little uglier, Druella."

She gave a sorry smile, and sudden dampness seemed to fill her eyes, but it was only a moments. Nevertheless, it was long enough for Alastor to catch lines that age was slowly pressing into her own face, a new tightness when she smiled and the like. But she was still beautiful, and he told her so.

"Flatterer," she laughed, playfully swotting him on the lapel, when grabbing his tie, and pushing further up his collar. Suddenly, he turned serious, found the words he needed to say.

"Druella… Dru… I'm not going to ask why you wrote me, your reasons, and what for. I'm just glad you did. But I want you to know, this time, I'm her for keeps. All that bullshit from before, I'm done with it. I can't tell you why, not yet, in fact you might find out soon enough, but the Aurors might not take me back, and I'm fine with that. If they do then I'll take as it comes. But I'm done with being angry, the fight for its own sake. There's no other firm holding me back now, I'm free and willing, and got a bit of gold to my name too. So whatever it is that's got you here, I'm offering you a leg out. I'll be your Prince now, if you'll have me?"

Her hands fell down to his, she took them in his, and squeezed them. "I've left Cygnus, and our daughter," she said, plainly, "But I'd never presume that you owed me a hand, Alastor. Or an alternative, but I'm not exactly free on the market. I'll never be able to get a divorce, and I daren't even go back to England. You know what my people are like. It'd paint a target on your back, and I couldn't put you in that kind of danger…"

He shrugged, "Cygnus Black already know my name. So do the rest of your people – and it might just be a reckoning for them soon. But until then, I'm not afraid, because I have my people – _our_ people. Charlus, Dorea, Alphard. They'll welcome you back with open arms whatever the terms, trust me. There was never nothing we couldn't do, remember? So… how about it? Me and you, again?" He could feel the strength that she was drawing from him, the determined smile entrenching itself in her face.

"I'd like to try."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Notes: Thank you to everyone who has managed to read this far into this piece. You might be wondering why end it here, well the fact is, it doesn't. As we know, Alastor Moody didn't end with the girl, retiring as an Auror, and moving to America. Instead, he came back to England and fought Voldemort to his last, dying breath and went mad. This is the first of at least two fics (including this one) I have planned to tell Alastor's story, and in a few weeks, I'll have the next part of his story: The Lost Auror.


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